


A Symphony for Wolves

by pinksugartales



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, for the drama mama, jaskier and ciri are both young adults, one-sided Ciri/Jaskier, popstar!Jaskier, the witchers run a wolfdog sanctuary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23596558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinksugartales/pseuds/pinksugartales
Summary: Ghost Lake was Jaskier's refuge. His little property, surrounded by forest, afforded him sanctuary the glitz of Los Angeles never could. Sometimes though, he misses being Dandelion - of having bright blonde hair, an unwavering voice, and the adoration of everyone around him. He especially misses this at night, when only the howling of the nearby wolfdogs accompany his broken singing.[Or, Jaskier is an ex-teenage popstar whose career was cut short after his cancer diagnosis. Rather than return to the industry after his recovery, Jaskier runs away from his former life and stumbles upon the Kaer Morhen Wolfdog Sanctuary.]
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 235
Kudos: 550





	1. An Artist in Anonymity

Despite unpacking the last box, Jaskier’s new home is unbearably vacant of any personality. The cottage is cozy, to be sure. The warm wooden interior and the floor to ceiling windows had lured him into purchasing the property from photos alone, but it’s a far cry from the lifestyle he’s used to. There’s so little _him_ in this place.

Most of his instruments were back in LA, his lavish estate now sitting undisturbed save for the valiant efforts of his live-in housekeeper and gardener. None of Dandelion’s awards, or even any of his more ostentatious clothing, had made it to Ghost Lake. Rather, Jaskier’s little home was now a few sketchbooks, a battered ukulele, and a dresser filled with his most mundane clothing. He’d even left his laptop behind, telling himself the less technology in this refuge the better.

The move itself was quick and discrete, and Jaskier hasn’t felt so… regular, so stripped away, in a very, very long time.

He can’t decide if his new situation is more liberating than scary.

From the coffee table, his phone vibrates.

_P: Don’t forget your appointment tonight._

_P: And be mindful of the time difference._

_P: If I don’t hear back from you soon, I’m booking a red eye to your little shack._

Jaskier frowns. He knows Priscilla is just looking out for him but he can’t help but feel babied.

_J: Got it_

_J: Thx_

_P: Are you all settled in?_

_J: Ya_

_J: Can’t talk rn tho, I’m expecting a call_

He was not, in fact, expecting a call but it's much easier to lie to Priscilla when he doesn't have to look her in the face.

_P: Fine._

_P: I’ll call you tomorrow._

_P: Take care, Dandelion._

He almost rolls his eyes. Dandelion. Since his recovery, Priscilla repeats the stage name constantly. She wields the word like a spell, as if the constant reminder could somehow lure him back to work.

 _You could just start writing again,_ she had said. _You don’t even have to sing. Just don’t waste your talents like this._

Jaskier wants to hate Priscilla sometimes but he knows better than to direct his frustration towards the woman. She was only doing her job as his manager, looking out for him with the same fierce protectiveness of a mother bear and her cub. Old habits die hard and she’s known him since he was but a gangly fourteen-year-old posting his off-tempo song covers on YouTube.

For the past seven years, she’s kept his nose clean and made sure no one took advantage of his youth and inexperience. In the later years, his sickness.

Still, he doesn’t want to be called Dandelion again just yet. Maybe not ever.

_J: It’s Jaskier now, remember?_

For he can't quite bring himself to be Julian again, either.

Shutting off his phone before she can reply, Jaskier flops onto his couch and stares out into the dense forest surrounding his property. Back in LA, Jaskier never would’ve left himself exposed through such a large window. Though his home had been gated, that still didn’t deter the more ambitious photographers from using their long-range lenses.

The vultures only got more ruthless after his diagnosis, scrambling to get photos of him at his most vulnerable. They were successful, at one point, and the headlines were just as hurtful as they were years ago.

_A Wilting Weed! Sources close to teenage sensation Dandelion say he’s lost over 20 pounds since his last doctor’s appointment. His latest album has been indefinitely postponed leading to a legal battle..._

Jaskier winces, thinking of his reed thin body and bald head splashed all over the internet. He’d shorn it all off in grief, hating how entire clumps would fall out with each round of chemo.

The housekeeper knew to always keep the curtains shut, after that.

Running a hand through his short, dark brown curls, Jaskier wonders if the paparazzi would even recognize him now. He’s definitely a far cry from both that sickly ghost isolating in his home as well as the smiling, golden haired youth gracing the cover of every prominent music magazine only four short years ago.

Oh, how they had adored him. A talk show host once described him as the industry darling.

_Who’s the flavor of the month now? The Countess? Valdo?_

Last he heard, that auto-tuned asshole had managed to wrangle his first lead role in a motion picture. The Countess was apparently in the running for her fourth Grammy nomination.

Jaskier pushes his phone away from him, the urge to double check those rumors growing each second. Holding the device would only tempt him to check the latest gossip, sucking him into a vortex of self-loathing as his competitors-sometimes-friends pulled through another milestone in their careers.

With the last vestiges of his self-control, Jaskier instead grabs his sketchbook and sunglasses before making his way outside to a beaten down path.

It's an easy walk, another draw to purchasing the property, and he soon makes it to the lake. The sun hangs high in the late summer afternoon but the air is chilled by the surrounding waters. Ghost Lake, despite its name, was a rather cheerful destination during the day. Its body gleamed bright blue and glittered with each windswept undulation. The horizon was meanwhile charmingly trimmed with greenery and a distant mountain range.

A few people sailed on the lake while others simply walked along the shoreline enjoying the weather. There was a summer village nearby that Jaskier pointedly avoided when selecting his property, but seeing crowds here was unavoidable.

A number of families were soaking in the early days of their summer vacation and he could hardly blame them. Some picnicked on the provided tables, laughing cheerfully as adventurous children ran towards the shore, shrieking, as they dipped their bare feet into the frigid lake water.

He wonders when joy was ever that simple.

Managing to find a shaded bench, Jaskier takes pencil to paper and commits these strangers to his sketchbook.

While music has always been his greatest passion, Jaskier’s artwork was nothing to sniff at either.

 _Gifted_ , his mother had cooed, rose colored glasses spinning anything he did from copper to gold. He’d always been proficient with drawing as a child but only improved after his diagnosis. Time recovering was long and stretched out, enough for him to hone his artistic sensibilities when singing was too painful or dangerous, and playing his instruments only made him melancholy.

_Would watercolor or oil be best to capture the surrounding landscapes?_

He decides to order some art supplies along with his next batch of groceries. He’d rather not arrange the driver to bring him to the nearest town, small though it was.

After completing an etching of a woman in an exceptionally abhorrent dress, the silhouette of a large brown creature catches the corner of his eye. For a second, Jaskier thinks that a coyote or even a wolf has strolled outside of the forest and his heart skips a beat, wondering if he should bolt.

He relaxes when he notices the creature is safely collared and leashed. A waifish young lady, little younger than him probably, holds its lead and guides her pet towards the bench beside him. The creature looks upon her, unamused, as she gives him a scratch on his head. It’s during this little exchange that Jaskier realizes the poor thing is missing both a leg and an ear.

He wants to ask about the dog, for surely there must be a story there, but thinks better of it.

It’s his first day incognito, and the girl couldn’t be too outside of Dandelion’s old fan demographic to not recognize him (even accounting for his years of irrelevancy). The last thing he needs is a well-intentioned selfie splashed all over Twitter.

Instead, he inclines his body ever so slightly towards her and begins to draw, for they were quite the fascinating pair. His sunglasses are doing a good job of hiding his glances and after about twenty minutes of her reading a book, she and the dog get up to leave.

While he prefers having the model in front of him, his mind is keen and he etches in the details through memory. He’s limited to his charcoal pencils but he would’ve loved to capture the girl and her pet in full color.

“You’re pretty good!”

“Jesus!”

Jaskier nearly slips off the bench after hearing the voice right against his ear. His neck still prickles from her breath.

Clutching his sketchbook tight against his chest, he turns back and sees the girl grinning brightly. Her dog sits quietly beside her, black eyes otherwise watching him with disinterest.

“I had a feeling I was being watched but I couldn’t be sure.”

A grimace twists Jaskier’s mouth.

“Sorry,” he says, adjusting his sunglasses so they’re sitting on his head. She’s already noticed him so might as well. He didn't want her to think him some creep and if she recognized him he'd simply beg secrecy.

“I hope you don’t mind. I got caught up watching your dog, and well, thought you worked well with the composition.”

Jaskier observes her, trying to see if there’s any trace of her recognizing Dandelion. She doesn’t seem to but it’s not like Jaskier was a leading expert on reading the minutiae of one’s expressions. Priscilla had once said he couldn’t read a room despite the words written on the walls.

“All will be forgiven if I can take a closer look,” the girl replies instead. There’s mischief there but no malice (he hopes) and Jaskier decides to breathe easy. He almost wishes he’d been able to capture _this_ expression in his drawing.

“Sure, why not?” he replies, holding his sketchbook towards her. Jaskier wasn’t particularly protective over the book. Even with music he preferred singing things half-done, always too excited to keep his cards to his chest.

To his surprise, the girl takes the seat next to him, near enough he can smell her shampoo. The mutt follows her faithfully, half-hopping and hobbling before lying down at her feet.

“Hm…” She tilts her head this way and that, biting her lip, as she holds the book. It’s rather endearing.

“Am I in for a critique?” he jokes.

“Maybe,” she continues to stare at the page, smiling.

“I look so serious… and surely my hair isn’t this messy.”

He chuckles.

“You also made me much too pretty.”

Jaskier blinks, somewhat surprised at the remark. With the way she teased him, all breezy confidence, he didn't take her as someone that would put herself down.

As the gears turn in his head, Jaskier realizes what she's up to, how this conversation is meant to go, how he’s so supposed to respond in kind.

“I simply draw what I see,” he’s careful to reply diplomatically, without a hint of flirtation. “And it’s a windy day.”

She _is_ pretty, that's undeniable, but he’s not exactly in the right mindset to be pursuing anyone right now. Had they met when he was _Dandelion_ , he no doubt would have chanced brushing one of those tresses behind her ear, maybe offer to draw her again.

“I can tell by your lines that you’re practiced.” She taps the drawing, cheeky, and smiles.

He swallows.

 _What a statement_ , Jaskier thinks.

“I’m an artist,” he replies as if he didn’t catch the double entendre. “Though I can’t say I’ve made my living off of the craft.”

“Do you mind?” the girl asks, amused, finger poised at the corner of the paper.

He does a quick mental tally, and knows there’s no risque figure drawings in this particular volume.

“Go ahead.”

She smiles that bright smile again, and begins thumbing through it. She comments on this and that and asks questions which Jaskier answers enthusiastically. It’s nice to talk to someone in complete anonymity. Someone who doesn’t ask after his health or his music.

(It also maybe helps that she’s pretty and interested and, well, Jaskier hasn’t felt attractive in a long time.)

She’s blunt with her assessments, pointing out some issues in his sloppier pieces but otherwise praises his skill. Jaskier puffs up like a peacock.

Aside from Priscilla and his parents (and the Countess, whenever they had the chance to catch up), no one really bothered with his artwork.

A soft boof interrupts their conversation, and Jaskier realizes the girl’s dog had stirred from his place at their feet. Though a complete ghost until this moment, a gaggle of geese has caught his attention. By the twitching of his one ear and the slow unfurling of his remaining limbs, he wanted to make a run for them.

“Roach, _no_. We had a talk about this.”

The dog looks up at his owner’s voice, and they stare at each other for a few moments before, seemingly chastened, he lies back down. Head on his paws, the dog looks forlorn at the geese in the distance. The girl still winds the lead around her hand, once, twice, securing it.

“His name is _Roach_?”

Jaskier can’t help but be somewhat appalled that someone named their dog after the insect. Surely he wasn’t ugly enough to warrant that name.

“ _Her_ name is Roach,” the girl replies with a laugh, “but not after the bug. Though she is a survivor.” The girl reaches down to scratch an ear, earning Roach’s glare. “She’s named after a type of fish.”

“Huh. No offense but I don’t think that’s any better.”

“None taken,” she says lightly. “It's bizarre, to say the least.”

Roach looks at them and huffs, as if she knows that they’re insulting her name.

“How long have you had her?”

Jaskier’s hand itches to pet, but Roach didn’t seem particularly in the mood to be bothered judging from her earlier reactions.

“Oh, she’s not mine.”

“No?”

“No, she belongs to my Uncle. I just take her for walks during my break…” Her eyes open wide in realization. “Oh shoot, I’m late! I got too distracted.”

There’s a pretty flush on her face that Jaskier isn’t sure he can attribute to the afternoon sun.

She hastily hands Jaskier back his sketchbook before clicking her tongue at Roach. The mutt takes it as a cue to get up.

“Thanks for letting me look through your notebook. I meant it when I said you're good!”

She says it with such sincerity that Jaskier’s heart warms. Thinking little of it, he tears the page off and hands it to her.

“Here, something to remember this afternoon by.”

“Oh!” she exclaims, suddenly bashful. “Um…”

He waits patiently.

“... would you mind signing it? I can’t have a drawing without the artist’s signature.”

Jaskier laughs at that, bright and sincere. It’s his first time signing something that isn’t for his music, and he’s quite delighted with the fact. He writes _Jaskier_ with as much flourish as he would _Dandelion_.

When she looks down at the paper, Jaskier thinks she frowns for but a moment.

He realizes, then, that he missed a beat in this dance. Any other guy would’ve taken the opportunity to write their phone number on the paper as a token of interest, an act of reciprocated attraction.

“Jaskier,” she says, seeming to recover from his falter nevertheless. “I’ve never met someone with a name like that before.”

“Nor I,” he replies.

“I’m Ciri, by the way. I’ve just realized that I’ve given you Roach’s name before my own.”

“Ciri, it’s been a pleasure spending this afternoon with you,” Jaskier bows to her dramatically, as best he can from the bench. The action only serves to delight her even more.

“Truly! But I should get going. I can already hear my Uncle’s lecture.”

“I won’t keep you then. Have a good day.”

A pause.

“Um," she fidgets, and isn't that adorable. "I usually come here around this time for my break. Maybe I’ll see you around tomorrow?”

“Guess we’ll see,” Jaskier responds in kind. There’s a hopeful look on her face that he doesn’t exactly want to encourage but he can’t bring himself to completely let her down either.

“Well, bye then!” Ciri manages. She quickly hurries away, Roach trotting beside her faithfully.

Jaskier watches her go, charmed by the encounter. When she’s out of his line of sight, he resumes his people watching.

The breeze kisses the back of his neck, and he feels a little lighter. It’s nice.

* * *

Jaskier uses his phone to FaceTime his speech therapist, trying his best to ignore the way she frowns at the quality of the audio. If Dr. Davens had her way, Jaskier would be in and out of her practice each week instead of him face-timing her from a log cabin, over a thousand miles away and an hour’s time difference between them.

“The quality of your tone is getting better. You’re very lucky that your vocal folds procured such minimal scarring considering the initial size of the tumor.”

And he is lucky.

Jaskier wants to be happy with the news, really. But sometimes he forgets his blessings when even attempting a higher register knocks the wind out of him, when practicing carries the expectation of his return to the industry, of scrutinizing eyes and a lack of privacy. The likelihood of regaining his previous pitch was uncertain, not even accounting for the fact that he’s older now and his voice has changed in his maturity. Memory can fade fast, and he's not sure if his previous label will want him the way they used to. There's always someone younger, more talented, more beautiful waiting in the queue.

Dr. Davens seems to notice his distress, even through the tiny phone screen.

“Just keep up with your exercises, Julian. You haven’t been at this that long.”

“I suppose.”

“Remember to review the exercises I’ve emailed. And follow them properly.”

“When have I ever fudged the rules?” he jokes despite her lack of amusement.

Dr. Davens first met Jaskier when he was fifteen and strained his voice recording his first album. She knows all his habits and says so with the arch of a pale brow.

As the silence stretches between them, Jaskier rubs his neck without thinking.

“Right, right. Thanks, Doc.”

“Take care, Julian,” she answers, nothing more to say on the matter.

And with that, Jaskier is once more alone.

That night he cooks himself a meager dinner, remembering to eat at least some vegetables after imagining Priscilla’s frowning face. He doesn’t remember the last time he really cooked for himself, as that was the duty of his personal chef.

 _God_ , that sounded excessively spoiled, even within the confines of his mind.

He knows a thing or two though, and gets by with a few google searches. As Jaskier chews on his chicken, he imagines himself dying of food poisoning alone in the woods. Imagine the headlines - _Cancer survivor Dandelion found dead after eating raw chicken._

It brings a morbid smile to his face.

After cleaning up (another thing he isn’t used to) Jaskier gets ready for bed. He doesn’t bother to close the drapes in his room. The thick forest, even in its mysterious darkness, feels like it's enough. There was anonymity here and he could imagine himself rest, really rest, in this place. The call of LA, his past life, is but a murmur against everything else.

Through the wood walls, the glass windows, the forest spoke of something old and vibrant. The wind rustled poplar and pine, joined by the cry of evening cicadas.

He hums to himself unwittingly, a song half-formed in his mind.

Under the cover of night, a lone wolf howls.


	2. Objective Observations

Ciri has been acting… strange the last few weeks. Even more so today, Geralt observes.

It wasn’t out-of-character for her to wear makeup considering she grew up with Yen as a role model, but Ciri never bothered with it during work hours citing that the sweat of sanctuary chores only made everything slip and smudge. Their day-to-day schedule shifted, but it always did include running around the property - some combination of maintaining the enclosures, feeding the pack, or facilitating the enrichment program. 

Not to mention their guided tours, the bread and butter of Kaer Morhen’s income.

Usually Ciri was the first to volunteer as a guide for those visiting the sanctuary (something that both he and Vesemir were eternally grateful for) but instead she’s been asking for administrative duties. It left her stuck in the lobby building dealing with paperwork, immediately running off with Roach once her lunch hour rolled around.

It wasn’t the greatest use of manpower, and they were starting to miss her influence on the front end of their operations. Out of their staff, it was unquestionable Ciri had the most people skills, not to mention she was scarily adept at getting guests to return or donate more than they’re first inclined to.

Once again, probably Yen’s influence.

Dara was too shy for such subtleties, Marilka too talkative and Eskel opted to stick with caring for the wolfdogs unless things were desperate and it was down to either him or Geralt. Too many people asked about Eskel’s scars, excited at the prospect of him being mauled by a wolf. It took all of the man’s patience from snapping at their assumptions.

Lambert was alright, Geralt supposes. Definitely more extroverted than both he and Eskel, but their younger brother tilted towards theatrics and spoke of what wolves could bite through in a particularly visceral way no matter how many times Vesemir chastised him.

Ciri reapplied some balm to her lips while looking into the mirror meant for guests trying on hats or other sanctuary merchandise.

“She’s found a beau,” Eskel laughs from behind him, breaking Geralt out of his reverie.

“Has she?” Geralt’s brow bending in confusion as he turns back to his brother.

“Look at her. That’s preening if I’ve ever seen it.”

Ciri ordinarily shares everything with them. It’s unlike her to be so tight lipped about anything and for her to be secretive about a _boy_... Geralt doesn’t like it. 

He feels a pang of nostalgia for back when she was a kid, sticking her tongue at the idea of relationships and declaring she’d never get married.

“Last time I saw her mooning like that was when Dara started volunteering over the summer.”

Geralt snorts, glad _that_ affair was short lived. 

The lad could barely keep up with Ciri, getting bowled over and flustered whenever she was in his vicinity. For a while, Geralt really thought he would quit volunteering, unable to get over his embarrassment over their brief relationship while surrounded by her family. There was nowhere to hide when all the senior staff was related to Ciri one way or another. Yet, he stuck it out and nevertheless re-applied the next summer. He simply loved the dogs too much to leave entirely.

Geralt respected that, just a little.

“Uncle Eskel, Uncle Geralt, is it alright if I take the front desk today?”

She’s more fiddling with the display case than rearranging it now, but neither of them remark upon the fact. His niece smooths down her hair after catching her reflection in the mirror, which Geralt only now notices looks sleeker and shinier than usual.

“You expecting someone?” Eskel asks casually.

It wouldn't be the first time Ciri has had friends come visit over the summer months, but from the way she fidgets even Geralt can tell this is different.

“Uh, yeah. If it’s alright, I’d like to give him the tour once he gets here.”

“A _him?_ ” Eskel echoes, tone teasing.

“A him,” Ciri replies, unamused and challenging.

“Well, what do you think, Geralt?” Eskel asks. His brother is absolutely enthralled by the situation judging from the twinkle in his eye.

Honestly, Geralt’s not sure how he feels about this. Ciri’s dated before, yes, but those brief puppy dog infatuations never led to anything serious considering her age. Even her romance, if you could even call it that, with Dara was back when they were fifteen and too awkward to try anything... inappropriate.

She’s older now, and that means this could be more serious. Geralt wonders if he should call up Calanthe. His niece only stayed over during the summer months and the occasional holiday, so surely her grandmother has had more experience managing Ciri in this department.

“One hour, then back to work,” he concedes as Ciri looks at him expectantly. “You’re still on company time.”

As much as he wants to keep her away from any suspicious suitors, she’d never forgive him for doing something as archaic as protecting her honor. Neither would Pavetta, god rest her soul.

(Emhyr might’ve been fine with it though.)

Eskel smiles, the scars on his face twisting.

“Well, you heard the man.”

Pleased with his reply, Ciri busies herself by refolding the t-shirts in their gift shop. Scorpion, Eskel’s malamute-german shepherd mix, trots after her knowing that his owner would soon be preoccupied. Roach, meanwhile, simply snores from his bed behind the front desk.

“I’m meeting up with the distributor to get the pack’s food for this week. Call me if you need anything,” Eskel says.

“Hm.”

The front door chimes as Eskel makes his exit.

Geralt continues updating the calendar and making appointments with Triss to come and check on their latest surrender. She’s still young, less than three months old, and he hopes that one of the packs will adopt her. Otherwise, there’s a number of extra tasks to be done - they’ll need to fence off an enclosure, try introducing her to a lone male, test if they’re willing to bond. Geralt’s somewhat concerned about their capacity, and it’s something he’ll have to talk to Vesemir about soon.

After answering some email inquiries, the silence of the lobby is interrupted by the front door opening. A young man saunters inside the building, looking around curiously. He’s dressed lightly for the early morning, only shorts and a breezy, sleeveless turtleneck to protect him from the weather. His dark brown curls are (objectively speaking) attactively windrumpled. The ukulele strapped to his back only serves to give him the look of a bohemian.

Geralt glances at the office door that Ciri had disappeared into only moments before. They have no tours currently scheduled for the day and guests usually arrived with family or friends if they were curious about the sanctuary. Alone as he was, Geralt guesses this is, as Eskel put it, Ciri’s new beau.

The boy, for anyone around Ciri’s age must still be a kid in Geralt’s eyes, hasn’t noticed him yet. Instead, he’s distracted by all the knick knacks and souvenirs within the gift shop.

Vesemir initially protested when they started selling them, but they offered a necessary supplemental income for their non-profit. Each of the regular staff had their own influence on the wares as well. Geralt carved wooden wolfdog statues in his spare time, Lambert casted pawprints of surrendered pups and turned them into paperweights, and Marilka even created customized tea blends based off of the dogs currently housed at the facility.

“Oh, isn’t that _gorgeous_.” 

The boy says it quietly, under his breath, and Geralt finds himself straining to listen as he continues chatting to himself. It seems something in one of the display cases has caught his eye, and it turns out to be one of Geralt’s carvings.

It’s an old one, rough in comparison to his newer works, but he was still proud of it. There’s no name indicating that he was the maker, just a tiny placard stating it was handmade and donated by a local.

“Hm.”

The boy’s eyes snap up towards the sound, and Geralt is faced with some of the most captivating eyes (objectively speaking) he’s ever seen. They’re unbearably blue, somewhere between spinel and aquamarine, and all of a sudden he understands Ciri’s strange behavior. 

He was _pretty_ , the kind of attractive you see in magazines rather than everyday life. The boy’s face was winsome in its youth yet the slope of his jaw and cheekbones hinted at the burgeoning maturity he was just settling into.

“Hi,” the boy says, smiling and running a hand through his mussed hair. “Is Ciri around?”

Geralt has to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying no, from warning this pretty stranger off his niece because something about beautiful people, especially after Yennefer, puts him on edge. It’s even worse that the boy seems _friendly_ from his guileless visage.

“In the office,” Geralt grumbles instead, keeping his face as neutral as possible. “She’ll be back soon.”

“Oh, alright then,” the boy says, biting his lip and looking slightly shy. “I’m, uh, Jaskier, by the way.” He holds out a slim hand.

“Geralt,” he replies brusquely, grasping the outstretched hand in response. He could feel the smooth calluses of a musician during the brief contact and frowns, thinking of his ukulele.

“You’re not planning to play that here, are you?” Geralt gestures to the instrument strung on the boy’s back. While Geralt knows the sound won’t _harm_ any of their charges, might even interest some of them, he doesn’t want any of the less socialized members of the pack overwhelmed with anything loud and new.

Especially from some boy trying to woo his niece with a sappy love song in the middle of the kennel or something.

“Oh! No, no, of course not,” Jaskier answers, eyes wide. “I brought it with me when I went down to the lake earlier and I came straight here instead of dropping it off back home.”

“... You live around here?” Geralt asks. He’s still suspicious of Ciri’s suitor, and wonders how far he could cross-examine him without being too obvious.

Jaskier just takes the question in stride, “Yeah, just moved a few weeks ago. Sure is a change from the city, but it’s been really nice.”

Indeed the source of Ciri’s behaviour then. It wasn’t unheard for people to move to the properties surrounding Ghost Lake, but it was rare. Simply too out-of-the way for most, though most vacations homes were easily rented out during the summer months.

“I see,” a half-hearted reply as Geralt turns to his paperwork. 

The boy doesn’t seem malicious, what with those wide blue eyes and open expression. Geralt restrains himself from grilling Jaskier any further, but just because he isn’t being actively hostile to the lad doesn’t mean he has to play nice. He goes back to balancing the expenses.

Jaskier, on his part, seems at a loss with the subtle dismissal and ensuing silence. Geralt can see him shifting his weight from foot to foot from his peripheral.

“I’m really excited to take the tour,” he continues, now talking more to himself than Geralt. “I don’t really know anything about wolves, though I like dogs a lot. I didn’t even know this place was here until Ciri told me.”

Geralt doesn’t deign to reply. 

Jaskier continues to fidget, as if the movement will catch Geralt’s eye and turn his attention back to him.

“I’ve always wanted a dog growing up but my mother was allergic,” Jaskier babbles. “I used to have a stuffed dog named Buttercup that I dragged everywhere with me but I ended up losing her when we moved. It was an utter tragedy, slept terribly for the next week. My dad tried replacing it with a similar stuffy, but I knew it wasn’t Buttercup and it only made me cry more knowing there was an imposter in my bed.”

This was the part where a person would laugh, offer a remark or teasing comment back.

“Hm,” Geralt says instead.

“You know, if I didn’t know better,” Jaskier says quietly, and maybe with a little snark, “I’d say you were a cat person.”

Geralt continues to write.

“Well then,” the boy bites his lip again and Geralt can see it reddening from the corner of his eye; he concentrates on his paperwork but the numbers aren’t right. Geralt knows he must’ve messed up his calculations somewhere along Jaskier’s little anecdote and suppresses a scowl.

“Is there anything I should know before going in? Rules I should follow?” Jaskier tries, because he just can’t seem to get the hint.

Geralt doesn’t even look up, just silently slides over a Kaer Morhen pamphlet, dos and don’ts outlined on the back, before going back to (his attempt at) ignoring him.

Jaskier takes the pamphlet, seemingly deflated, before beginning to read. Geralt will go to his grave before admitting he feels slightly guilty.

“Easy enough to remember,” Jaskier murmurs once he’s done. It’s not a long list, just general safety and courtesy rules and it doesn’t take more than a minute to read over.

The music playing in the lobby is low, barely perceptible, and it only serves to make the situation more unpleasant. Geralt was usually fine with silences, most people understanding that he didn’t want to be disturbed by his general demeanor, but Jaskier continues to hang around the front desk. The brunette seemed to be made of movement, humming under his breath, shifting his weight, stealing little glances at him rather than find something better to do while he waited for Ciri.

“If it’ll make you more comfortable,” Jaskier says, because he can’t seem to hold his tongue, “I can leave this here.” He gestures to the ukulele.

Geralt blinks at the return to the topic, finally looking up at him. It’s a surprisingly considerate offer, kind of like when stores ask you to leave your bag at the front to prevent shoplifters, only actually voluntary. He wonders if this was some way to curry brownie points from Ciri’s coworkers.

Geralt isn’t particularly pressed about confiscating the instrument yet still finds himself nodding to the offer.

“Put it back here,” Geralt replies, gesturing to the wall behind him.

Jaskier smiles, teeth brilliant and white, before struggling with the strap. As he pulls it over his head Geralt catches a flash of pale skin from where the flowy top has ridden up before it falls back down in the blink of an eye.

He takes a sip from his coffee mug, mouth suddenly dry.

“Roach!”

Leaning over with his ukulele has afforded Jaskier the sight of Roach, now awake from her nap. She looks up at him from her dog bed, unamused, and sneezes. That’s as much acknowledgement as he’s gonna get.

“You know my dog?” Geralt asks, brow raised.

“Yep! Oh, you’re Ciri’s uncle!” Jaskier exclaims with gleaming eyes.

Geralt frowns again, wondering just how one’s iris could possibly be that color.

Taking his frown for something else, Jaskier hurries to explain, “I bump into Ciri and Roach down by the lake pretty often.”

Ah, the reason for Ciri’s sudden disappearances then.

“We’ve had the pleasure of spending many an afternoon together, haven’t we, Roach?” Jaskier continues, cooing down at his dog.

Roach huffs, as if in disagreement. Geralt tries not to smile, though a small twitch of his lips betrays him.

Jaskier seems to catch it though, looking altogether pleased at seeing his stoicism falter.

“You’ve raised a stubborn one, you know,” Jaskier complains, leaning against the front desk. “I thought she’d have warmed up to me now considering there’s a bag of goodies in my kitchen just for her.”

Geralt raises a brow. 

“Been bribing my dog?”

“Only with the highest quality treats, I assure you! Got the okay from Ciri first, of course.”

“Hm. Nice try, but Roach doesn’t like people.”

“Like her owner, maybe?” Jaskier asks with a sly look.

Cheeky. Yes, he could understand Ciri’s mooning.

“Hm.”

“Well,” Jaskier continues despite Geralt's non-answer, “I tend to grow on people.”

And once more, from underneath dark lashes, those blue, blue eyes pierce right into him.

Geralt looks away and takes another sip from his mug.

“Jask!”

Ciri pops out of the office, folder pressed to her chest. Scorpion follows at her heels (more like waist, considering his height), before turning his attention to the stranger. He strolls right up to Jaskier, sitting down and looking at him expectantly.

“Hey,” he says to her, but it’s clear his attention is drawn to the dog in front of him whose tail is wagging excitedly at the stranger.

“And who is this beauty?” he kneels down as he asks, holding a hand out for Scorpion to smell.

Scorpion sniffs and gives him a tiny lick. Jaskier glances at both Ciri and Geralt and, finding that they weren’t going to stop him, doesn’t hesitate digging his fingers into the dense fur of his neck.

“Aren’t you the most fluffy cutie who has ever walked this earth?” Jaskier begins baby talking Scorpion, who basks in the attention before flopping onto his back for belly rubs. Jaskier promptly indulges him, eliciting a thumping leg.

Scorpion was always good with guests, one of the reasons it was alright for him to hang about the lobby along with Roach, but Geralt has never seen him so... subdued before.

And even more curious, Roach rises from her bed where she’s been silently observing the situation and struts right up to Jaskier, bumping his leg with her nose. 

“Oh, Roach!” Jaskier looks utterly delighted at seeing her approach. “I would have never thought you were a _jealous_ gal!” and the young man is suddenly dividing his attention between the two dogs.

“Fear not, dear lady, for you’ll always have a place in my heart,” Jaskier exclaims before going back to enthusiastically petting the pups.

While Roach isn’t on her back like Scorpion, the subtle way she leans into Jaskier’s fingers is basically a goddamn love letter.

“Huh,” Geralt says, genuinely baffled. “The treats he’s been feeding her can’t be that good, right?” He looks at Ciri who doesn’t seem to have heard him.

She’s practically glowing, face flushed, at seeing Jaskier surrounded by the dogs. Something Geralt doesn’t recognize twists in his stomach. 

He glances at the jumbled numbers of his paperwork before excusing himself and quietly stepping outside.

 _Let the two young people be_ , he thinks.

Geralt sees Marilka approach, making her way from their refrigerated shack to one of the enclosures. She carries buckets of raw meat meant for one of the enrichment activities. There’s strength in her dainty frame, and it doesn’t take long for her to reach him.

“Morning Geralt - oh, we have a guest already?” She looks through the lobby window curiously.

“Ciri’s friend,” he grumbles as Marilka walks past him.

“Whoa, he’s cute!” Marilka exclaims, just as Jaskier gets bowled over by Scorpion whose now set on attacking him with kisses.

Geralt doesn’t reply to her remark, but does feel reassured by the comment. Objective beauty, after all.

“Wonder if he’s single,” she ponders. “Hm, probably too young for me though.”

“You’re twenty-five.” Jaskier surely couldn’t be too out of her age range?

Geralt suspects that he’s a few years older than Ciri, but he’s always been bad with estimating. Part of him knows his image of Ciri is skewed, still imagining part of her as that scrappy eleven-year-old who managed to run away from Calanthe, somehow making her way to his doorstep with nothing but a knapsack and a stolen credit card.

“Yeah, too young,” Marilka answers. “Anyways, it seems Ciri has called first dibs.”

Geralt looks back into the lobby, can see Ciri and Jaskier, sides pressed together as they continue lavishing the dogs with attention. He can hear their laughter through the glass and he knows.

She’s smitten.

“Wait a second…” Marilka murmurs, putting down her buckets as she moves much closer to the window.

“What’s wrong?”

“Actually… nothing, nevermind… well,” Marilka squints, looking baffled as she observes them. “He just seems so familiar, like I’ve seen him before.”

Geralt doesn’t say that if she _had_ met him, surely she would’ve remembered the meeting. Faces like that usually aren’t so forgettable. 

“Doubtful. I think he’s new here. Maybe one of the summer tenants.”

“You’re right,” she sighs, leaning back. “Probably just has one of those faces.”

Geralt refuses to allow himself to refute the remark.

“Come on, back to work,” he grumbles instead, picking up one of the buckets. The smell of raw red meat, even half-frozen, turns his stomach to this day and he hurries his steps away from the lobby building.

“Yessir,” Marilka responds, completely chipper as she grabs the second pail.

She launches into explaining a journal article Vesemir had recently forwarded to her on canine teeth, talking about studies and theories and fossils and he focuses on the upbeat cadence of her voice.

It’s a welcome distraction from the blue of the sky, of the muffled sound of laughter in the lobby. He hurries his steps, leaving it behind.

* * *

(When they’re closing up shop that evening, Geralt notices someone has purchased one of his carvings. He pretends that he isn’t pleased.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kind comments last chapter! I really appreciate each and every one of you that commented, kudos'd, bookmarked or subscribed. I hope you enjoy this chapter as well!! I've been writing the next chapter while listening to The Amazing Devil on repeat. Joey and Madeleine have gorgeous voices :)


	3. Delight in Contrasts

Jaskier strums his ukulele idly, drinking in the afternoon heat. He lays on a blanket alongside the lake, back pillowed by thick grass and surrounded by the sounds of water, wind, and the indistinct conversation of distant strangers. Keeping the instrument to his chest, Jaskier blindly reaches for the container of fruits beside him. The berry, still cold as it bursts in his mouth, tastes of summer.

He’s half-tempted to drift to sleep when the sound of footsteps catch his attention. Jaskier feels Ciri sit down beside him, warm against his side. She reaches over and takes the container for herself before lying down. Roach settles at their feet.

“And how is my favorite thief today?” he asks, without moving from his position, for this afternoon is meant for slothfulness.

“Just fine,” Ciri replies, snacking on stolen fruit. Her eyes are focused on the sky above them. “A music day today?”

“Yep,” he says with a pop of his mouth and another lazy strum. He’s been alternating between bringing his ukulele and sketchbook to the lake, pulled back and forth between mediums. 

On his moodier days, he brings his sketchbook and Ciri will play music on her phone to compensate for the quiet. While he’s happy to find Dandelion missing from her playlists, the joy in this discovery is hampered by a copious number of Valdo Marx numbers.

“Mistress Music called,” Jaskier continues with a quiet chord. “How could one as lowly as I forgo her desires?”

“And we can’t have you upsetting her,” Ciri bantered. “And what will you be playing for her today, Maestro Jaskier?”

“Well,” he thinks for a moment, “something soft, I think. Indulgent.”

They continue just lying there when he makes no motion to play, watching as clouds drift slowly along the skyline. When the quiet feels right, Jaskier sits up and begins. Nothing too fancy, a simple fingerpicking pattern and a pleasing assortment of chords he’s been toying with the past week. The words are there, somewhere, but he hasn’t yet been able to tease them out.

Ciri is smiling now, eyes now closed and ever the perfect audience.

Jaskier doesn’t see her everyday. Sometimes he doesn’t bother going to the lake, opting instead to explore the sprawling forests surrounding his cabin. Other days he feels he can’t breathe as the gloom constricts his windpipe. When Ciri asks where he’s disappeared to on those days, he spins her a pretty lie.

Ciri makes for good company, but Jaskier is a poet as well as an artist and he knows all about the joy of contrasts. Intermittent absence makes their chance meetings all the more delightful.

He feels himself swaying into the song and part of him wants to sing. The words can’t seem to take flight though, so Jaskier hums instead. A humble gift in thanks for her presence.

Dandelion has met a lot of remarkable people in his life - entertainers, dancers, musicians, models, actors and artists. He’s fallen a little in love with a number of them too, even if he couldn't always act upon this interest. Yet despite the short time he’s spent with Ciri, Jaskier feels a quiet kinship. Ciri, who’s quiet smiles, playful wit, and confidence at nineteen and normal.

Ciri doesn't _know_ him yet though, not really. How could she when his words play with the truth, when his stories lay half in shadow when he speaks? And still, Jaskier doesn't want to disrupt this tentative balance. There’s comfort in the distance.

She doesn’t applaud when he finishes his song and somehow that makes it better.

“Plans for the rest of the day?” Ciri asks as she usually does, and Jaskier similarly offers her his usual answer.

“Nope.”

Once, he would’ve itched with restlessness were he forced to answer as such. Jaskier thinks of Priscilla, speaking a mile a minute as she reminds him of interviews and dance rehearsals and song recordings and fittings and photo shoots and -

“Come to Kaer Morhen,” Ciri inadvertently interrupts, before grabbing the last berry from the container. She’s been trying to get him to leave his house more often, ever since he confessed he left his cabin for little else other than Ghost Lake.

“The wolfdogs make for wonderful models, don’t they?” she barters after his silence.

The Priscilla in his mind goes quiet.

Wonderful models indeed. Jaskier caught sight of a pack during his last visit. Magnificent creatures. He would’ve drawn them had he the chance, but he didn’t think to bring his sketchbook and Ciri’s break was mostly spent entertaining Roach and Scorpion.

Jaskier hasn’t been back to Kaer Morhen since. The wolfdog statue sitting on his bedside table is the only reminder of his visit. It seems the anonymous artist had better luck with their observations, for only a truly practiced eye could capture the animals in such loving detail.

When he first saw the statue, he was surprised with how something so solid could seem like it was in movement. It was painstakingly crafted, anatomy graceful and the wood polished to a mirror-like shine. 

That it was created by someone who didn’t want acknowledgement only further compelled Jaskier to own the piece. There was kinship there, too.

It’s the only decoration in his cabin that isn’t utilitarian in nature, and it proffers the idea of settling, of making this place home despite its unspoken transience.

Ciri is quiet as he contemplates.

(His mind drifts to the memory of Scorpion nuzzling into his palm, Roach seeking attention. Of quiet radio songs in the lobby and the feel of amber eyes observing him when he looks away.)

“Let me grab my sketchbook before we go.”

Ciri smiles at him, lips bubblegum pink and pleased. Before they move, Jaskier takes one last drink of sunshine, bottles up the afternoon in a memory, and saves it for a rainy day.

* * *

Jaskier thinks he should’ve brought a hat to go along with his sunglasses. Maybe a face mask, though that might’ve drawn more attention than detered it.

The sanctuary lobby is busier than his previous visit. Children beg their parents for gifts, bored teens hang about, and older couples peruse pamphlets and paper weights.

Jaskier immediately ducks away from the crowd, hiding behind Ciri.

An attractive brunette-blonde, another member of the staff judging from her attire, looks at him oddly before spiriting his shield away. Ciri looks regretful, but Jaskier doesn’t mind spending the afternoon alone. 

While Ciri said he didn’t need to pay the entrance tour, he stuffs more than enough bills to cover the fee twice over into the donation box, receiving a nod of approval from the bored looking man minding the lobby.

“You’re Jaskier then. Ciri’s…” he clicks his tongue, “friend.”

Jaskier puts on his most charming smile despite the slight chill in the man’s demeanor.

“I most certainly am. I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage, mister... ”

“Lambert. Ciri’s uncle.”

 _Another uncle_ , Jaskier thinks. _How many uncles is Ciri hiding around here?_

Jaskier hides his surprise as he takes stock of the man. While Geralt and Ciri shared similar coloring with their pale hair and skin, Lambert was a complete outlier. He was stockier than Geralt, dark brown hair cropped short and skin tanned brown by the summer sun. Handsome, though in a different way than his brother.

“She won’t shut about you,” Lambert says, matter-of-factly. Jaskier thinks that Ciri probably wouldn’t appreciate this admission. 

“Jaskier this, Jaskier that. He’s so talented! Did you see this drawing Uncle Lambert?” The man’s voice pitches higher as he does a rather poor imitation of Ciri’s voice.

Jaskier feels himself flush at the comments. He can’t tell if Lambert’s being teasing or being rude. Maybe it’s best to bet on both.

“She’s a nice girl, ain’t she?” her uncle continues, suddenly more serious.

Lambert watches him like a hawk as he waits for an answer, and Jaskier is all at once realizing the implication. Jaskier stands straighter, for the man needn’t be worried about his intentions.

Jaskier doesn’t plan to take anything further than the occasional passing flirtation, and Ciri herself hasn’t made any advances.

 _An attraction bound to fizzle out by the end of summer_ , Jaskier thinks. For while Dandelion once had the heart of thousands in his hands, Jaskier is just finding his footing in the world.

“She is a nice girl,” Jaskier replies evenly, “and a good friend.”

Part of Jaskier is put off by this old-fashioned display of male protection, of the constant suspicion towards his character and Ciri’s judgement.

But Ciri is also nineteen, apparently fresh out of an all-girl’s high school, and Jaskier is not naive; he’s grown up in the music industry where murmurs of questionable behavior towards girls (and boys) much younger than her are not uncommon, and knows that such things were not constrained to the entertainment sphere.

He continues to look Lambert in the eye, unflinching.

Whatever Lambert is looking for, he seems to find it and smiles, all teeth.

“You been here before, yes?”

“Yes,” Jaskier replies, taking the white flag and retreating into small talk. ”I wasn’t able to stay long though.”

“Heard you bought one of the statues from Dara,” he leans back into his chair, crossing his arms.

“You keeping tabs on me?”

Lambert shrugs, “Someone should.”

“Well,” Jaskier starts, ignoring the acknowledgement, “whoever you’re getting your gossip from was correct. The display statues caught my eye soon as I walked in.”

“Must’ve cost a pretty penny.”

In truth, was but a tiny drop in the bucket for Jaskier’s bank account.

“Personally, I could think of a dozen better things to spend my money on than a piece of wood,” the man says.

Jaskier is slightly affronted by the quip on behalf of the artist.

“ _Personally_ ,” Jaskier smiles tightly, “I feel it was worth the price tag. Part of me is regretful the artist would rather stay in the shadows.”

Jaskier continues to speak, because he’s still a little annoyed, “I would have liked to send a message conveying my appreciation.”

Lambert simply smiles through Jaskier’s prickly tone. “They’re not the type to languish in the spotlight.”

“You know them?” Jaskier shouldn’t be surprised. Just how many locals were there around Ghost Lake in the first place?

“Have since I was a kid,” Lambert responds with a faraway look. “Keeps to themselves. Reclusive. Not unlike the wolves here.”

“Thought wolves were pack animals.”

“Yep. Pack animals and terribly shy to those outside the pack,” Lambert chuckles, sharing a secret joke.

“Too bad then,” Jaskier sighs, annoyance retreating. No point pushing into knowing more about the person if they wanted to hide. “If you ever see them though, please pass on my appreciation.”

Lambert hums, before looking back at him like a lightbulb went off in his head. 

“How about a trade, then?”

Jaskier is intrigued by the glint in his eye.

“What would this trade entail?” he ventures, slowly. 

The man grabs a pen and notepad from the counter, pushing it towards him.

“Write something,” he nods towards the stationary. “I’ll make sure it makes its way into the hands of the artist. It would probably do them some good to get some appreciation. In return, you go on an errand for me.”

“An errand?” Jaskier echoes, slightly apprehensive. “I’m not meeting someone in some sketchy alleyway, am I?”

“Now, now,” Lambert grins, “nothing so horrible as what you’re imagining. It’s hot out and I’d rather stay in this air conditioned room than run around outside,” he gestures to the window. “Wait here a moment.” 

Lambert disappears into the office door and returns with a thermos.

“You see Geralt around last time? Guy with white hair? Stick up his ass? Permanent scowl?”

“Ciri’s other uncle, yes,” Jaskier replies, mouth twitching at the teasing. “Met him briefly during my last visit.” 

Jaskier would be lying if he said his mind hadn’t, once in a while, drifted towards the impossibly sharp cut of his jaw during the past week. What could he say? He’s an aesthete.

“He’s over in Enclosure 3, with our main pack. Just bring this to him and your little note will get to your artist,” Lambert says, holding the thermos towards him.

Jaskier takes the outstretched thermos. He swishes it around, feeling the liquid splash against the sides.

“Cool drink for the hard worker?”

Lambert snorts. “As if I’d ever be so soft. It’s coffee. For the dogs.”

“ _Coffee?_ ” Jaskier exclaims, incredulous. “I’m not expert on wolfdogs but that hardly sounds like an appropriate part of their diet.”

Lambert barks out a laugh. “Just give it to Geralt, kid. He knows what it’s for.” 

Though skeptical, Jaskier nods and places the thermos on the counter before grabbing the stationary. He wonders where this little task will lead, but he’s never been one to reject an opportunity to ogle.

And of course, the note.

If this had been an email, Jaskier could’ve written pages upon pages of words to this artist. Here though, there’s no time. Not with Lambert’s watching eyes and even more so with the constraint of the notepaper.

Though he’s always been good with keeping up a one-sided conversation, Jaskier also knows how to keep it short and sweet.

With a smile, Jaskier scribbles his message and slides the note over. He’s not surprised when Lambert openly reads over it, rolling his eyes, before putting it away.

“Best hurry,” the man says. “I’ll make sure this gets to them, as long as long as that gets to Geralt.”

“I’ll make haste,” Jaskier says, grabbing the thermos and leaving with a small salute.

Once Jaskier exits the building, he enters Kaer Morhen in earnest. Winding dirt pathways leading to several outdoor enclosures. His curiosity concerning the thermos spurs him to move faster, following the signs towards Enclosure 3, but still being mindful of rocks and root along the pathway.

Jaskier’s been a city-boy his entire life. Both his parents laughed when he told them he was moving to his current property. They regaled him with reminders of their failed camping trips and the furious letters his childhood self sent from summer camp. 

They weren’t wrong in their ribbing but, these days, Jaskier finds himself happily wandering barefoot in the forest behind his cabin. The sighs of the forest now provide a welcome soundtrack to his wanderings.

The walk to Enclosure 3 isn’t terribly long. Each one of the permanent pens, Ciri explained, was one to two acres large and allowed the wolfdogs and their pack enough space to roam. The guest enclosures, however, were smaller and designed for viewing and tours and situated closer to the lobby building.

Kaer Morhen staff herded a different rotation of ambassador dogs (pups that didn’t mind the scent and sound of strangers so much) from the main enclosures to those specifically designed for visiting hours each day. Jaskier hopes he’ll be allowed to draw them once the mystery of the coffee thermos has been solved.

As Jaskier nears the enclosure, he notes Geralt’s familiar figure, instantly recognizable by his pale hair, long and lovely despite how it’s tangled by the wind.

There’s no one around so Jaskier pushes his sunglasses up to really get a look of him. The older man stands within the enclosure, six gorgeous wolfdogs of differing pelt colors surrounding him. The ivory white pup sticks closest to him, and together they look like they’ve just stepped out of some HBO fantasy series. It’s quite a sight.

Jaskier flips to a fresh page in his sketchbook then, for how could he not? Geralt had the makings of a _muse_ like this. 

As he draws, Jaskier can’t help but _look_ , admiring the cut of Geralt's cheekbones, his handsome nose and lips. He takes in the breadth of Geralt’s shoulders, the ripple of muscle beneath his shirt. Jaskier’s gaze drifts down to see his pants stretch across his ass and _oh_ , his staring was definitely veering away from artistic purposes.

Jaskier’s known about his heart’s inclination since he was six, confirmed it with a boyhood crush at eleven, and learned to shut up about it at fourteen after Priscilla talked to him about the importance of branding and the label’s desire for a squeaky clean heterosexual teen-dream fantasy.

Dallying with the fairer sex wasn’t new to Jaskier - it took a lot of discretion, of mutual understanding, but as long as both parties understood the parameters of the engagement it was a possibility. 

Finding other men though - that was trickier and Jasker had been content, despite being admittedly wistful, with leaving those experiences to the imagination until his grand coming out music video.

(Prisicilla had promised to pitch the concept album once he was older, more established, when the teen-dream schtick was starting to get old and they needed a new look and sound for him. Dandelion loves dramatics and latched onto the idea before he knew any better.)

All that is to say, on this hot summer day, Jaskier unfortunately finds himself twenty-two, celibate for the past three years due to sickness and seclusion and secrecy, and now feeling decidedly _un-chaste_ towards his new friend-slash-acquaintance’s uncle.

 _Shit_.

The dogs start howling as a flock of birds overhead catch their attention and the yowling is a welcome distraction from Jaskier’s spiraling thoughts. 

But he then sees Geralt’s shoulders shaking in silent laughter as he watches the pack kick up a fuss and oh - that, worryingly, does something more to Jaskier’s heart than his libido.

He takes a deep breath and straightens his spine as the pups quiet down.

“Special delivery!” he grins, putting all thoughts behind him. Jaskier had once entertained crossing over into acting, for what was being Dandelion if not at least partially an act? 

(Weeks ago, he thought the acting would’ve ended with Jaskier, but that doesn’t seem to be the case at all.)

Geralt finally notices him, furrowed brows indicating his confusion, but he approaches the enclosure gate once Jaskier holds up the thermos. The white wolfdog sticks close to Geralt’s side while the others watch from the distance.

“Um, not sure if you remember me-”

“I remember,” Geralt interrupts. His voice is still as deliciously husky as last time they met.

Jaskier schools his expression into one of casual friendliness, when all he really wants to do is bat his eyes and respond with something more _friendly_. He vaguely wishes the man had an ASMR YouTube channel. He’d even register as a Patreon if he could hear that voice in his ear on a regular basis.

“Right,” Jaskier can feel his face heat, just a tiny bit, but soldiers on with a grin. “Lambert told me to give this to you. Said it was for the dogs.”

“Lambert has you running around for him?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Part of a deal.”

He refrains from going off on a tangent about Lambert’s lack of appreciation for the arts, trying to play it cool. When he went home after his first visit to Kaer Morhen, he colored red after thinking about how he spilled his little story about Buttercup to Geralt during their first meeting. 

Geralt hums and ignores the comment. After taking the thermos, he unscrews it and takes a sniff.

“Cold coffee.” He glances down at the wolfdog sitting quietly beside him, brilliant yellow eyes tracking his every move. “Bellegarde’s favorite.”

“Can I ask what it’s for? Your brother was being very vague about the whole thing.”

“Hm.”

Geralt stares at him for a moment, and time seems to stretch as Jaskier is pinned by his gaze. For a second, he thinks that he isn’t going to get an answer but the older man simply opens the gate.

“C’mon in.”

Jaskier wastes no time in accepting the invitation, steps bouncing with excitement as he enters the enclosure. He doesn’t get too close though, as Bellegarde stands close to Geralt imposingly.

His mind wanders back to the pamphlet Geralt had shoved at him during his last visit and knows she wouldn’t harm him yet he feels slightly unnerved by her silence. She wasn’t like Scorpion, or even Roach.

“It’s alright,” Geralt says as if predicting Jaskier’s apprehension. “She’s one of our more social dogs.”

“Bellegarde, say hello,” Geralt commands. The wolfdog approaches Jaskier and he quickly softens at the sight.

“Hello, Bellegarde!” Jaskier can’t help but reply. Geralt seems mildly amused by his enthusiasm while the wolfpup simply looks at him quizzically, tilting her head ever so slightly.

“Paw,” Geralt says, stern towards the dog.

Bellegarde lifts up a paw, swinging it slightly. Jaskier can feel his heart swell at the gesture and looks at Geralt for permission. He receives a brief nod, and hunches down so he can take the large paw in hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, pretty girl! What large paws you have!”

Bellegarde huffs and Jaskier melts. She retreats towards Geralt's side after the trick.

“Good girl,” Geralt says. “She’s a high-content dog but surprisingly social.”

“Her paws are huge!”

“Mm. A sign of how much wolf is in them.”

Geralt pulls a treat from his pocket and tosses it in the air. Bellegarde tracks the little biscuit, snapping her maw with a clean click as it falls towards her.

“She’s gorgeous,” Jaskier sighs.

“She is,” Geralt replies. Pride shines through his tone and Jaskier can’t help but he, too, looks gorgeous like that - features softened with affection.

Jaskier clears his throat. “How long have you had her?”

“Hm, she was surrendered the day I first started working here permanently. About… seven years ago now.”

“That’s curious,” Jaskier says, looking into amber eyes and smiling. “Both coming to Kaer Morhen at the same time, along with your matching coloring. Almost like destiny.”

It’s a smile thing, Geralt’s smile, but it’s just so _nice_ and something warm curls in Jaskier’s stomach.

“Did Ciri tell you about scent rolling?” Geralt asks as he leads Jaskier deeper into the enclosure. A few of the pups lay about, while others began to distance themselves once they get closer.

“Not a thing.”

“Thought she gave you the tour?” Geralt glances at him from the corner of his eye. He once again feels pinned by Geralt’s gaze, and there’s something electric about being kept in his line of sight.

(In the quiet of his mind, Jaskier wonders what it means to feel pleased to be prey.)

“We kinda just circled the pathway before I left. Said she only had an hour and I thought it would be rude to take up too much of her time.”

“I see.”

There’s a lull in the conversation, and Jaskier wonders just what is going through the man’s head.

“So,” Jaskier tries to start the conversation back up, “scent rolling?”

Geralt seems broken out of his thoughts. “It’s an enrichment activity. Wolves roll around in things like animal carcasses or deer scat out in the wild, bringing back the smell and all that information back to the pack.”

“Ew.”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth twitches. Jaskier wonders why he doesn’t just deign to smile, but the restraint is awfully endearing.

 _The delight of contrasts_ , he thinks.

“Ew, indeed,” the man hums. “In the enclosures, we give them new things to roll around in - soaps, perfumes, sometimes different foods or drinks. They tend to enjoy coffee.”

Geralt opens the thermos and pours some of the contents on the ground.

Bellegarde practically pounces on the puddle sniffing it once before rolling around, back twisting on the grass. The other dogs seem to have taken interest as well, the more courageous ones approaching them tentatively.

“Lambert said they’re shy creatures,” Jaskier notes as a dark-furred pup hides away behind a bush.

Geralt hums in agreement as he pours more of the coffee around them.

“When it comes to their flight or fight instinct, they’d rather run away.”

Jaskier laughs, only somewhat bitterly. “Now, isn’t that relatable.”

Geralt doesn’t comment on his change in tone, and he’s grateful considering the small slip. The man gives Bellegarde a scratch behind the ear while the other dogs approach the little puddles of coffee. Wordlessly, Jaskier opens up his sketchbook and begins to draw. He can feel Geralt’s eyes on him as he does so. As the minutes pass by, Jaskier feels himself burn up at the attention.

Geralt breaks the silence. “Ciri said you were good.”

 _Does this girl get no privacy?_ Jaskier thinks, slightly amused. _Seems like every uncle around here needs to spill her secrets_.

Jaskier tilts the page towards him, keeping those thoughts to himself. “Well, what do you think?”

The man blinks, looking a little stunned as he takes in the page. It isn’t very refined, but the construction is right and Jaskier thinks he’s done a good job at capturing the sensation of the scene.

“You drew me as well.”

Jaskier takes in the dark lashes that frame his eyes. Exquisite.

“Yes,” Jaskier replies bravely. He won’t apologize for what he finds beautiful, what he feels compelled to capture.

“Hm.”

It’s a non-answer but, as Geralt turns away, Jaskier thinks he sees the tips of his ears coloring red. Logically, he knows it could be attributed to heat, his time in the sun, but Jaskier is a romantic as well as an artist and his thoughts start to take flight.

As Geralt goes back to work, Jaskier decides against offering him the drawing like he did with Ciri. Nor does he offer up the one he drew before that.

When Jaskier leaves Kaer Morhen, hours of observation and drawing later, he feels a little greedy knowing that there are more sketches of Geralt filling his book than there are of the wolfdogs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Learning that Geralt wanted his last name to be Haute-Bellegarde but Vesemir wouldn't let him was pretty hilarious, so I wanted to give a nod to that in this chapter! Thank you to everyone that left a comment/kudos/etc. last chapter. Hope you guys enjoy the update, and please know I always welcome feedback. 
> 
> Stay safe, everyone! Until next time :)


	4. A Silent Storm

“Can Jaskier come to dinner on Sunday?”

Geralt keeps a firm grip on the plate threatening to slip from his fingers. Rather than answer Ciri immediately, he takes his time cleaning the dirty dish, only looking at her when he passes the clean plate over. His niece side eyes him as she dries, obviously curious to the cause for his behavior.

“A little early to be meeting the family, isn’t it?” Geralt asks evenly as he continues to wash. His words are hard to hear over the running faucet.

“He’s already met both you and Uncle Lambert,” Ciri snorts, refusing to let him dodge the question. “According to Dara, that was the more intimidating half of the gauntlet.”

She gently takes the dish he’s spent an excessive time rinsing.

“Eskel and Vesemir went easy on him since he was only fifteen,” Geralt mutters. 

There’s a particularly nasty stain on one of their coffee mugs that Geralt knows will be impossible to get out without bleaching. Lambert had an awful habit of leaving his cold coffee lying around whenever he visited, and now they had a treasure trove of ruined cups in the sink.

“And you didn’t have any reservations about bullying a kid more than half your age?” she asks, once he gives up on trying to salvage the ceramic.

“‘Course not,” Geralt replies matter-of-factly as he starts on another ruined mug. “He wanted to date you.”

His niece tries to keep on her serious face, but he can see her amusement peeking through as they continue to work.

Geralt wipes down the countertops and dining table once they’re done, trying to collect his thoughts. Though he’s seen Jaskier about Kaer Morhen since he introduced him to Bellegarde, the visits have recently tapered off.

Every time he goes into work, he still half-expects to see the boy hanging about sketching, sunglasses perched on his nose. Geralt has made it a point to seem busy whenever he sees the young man, never muttering anything other than a quick hello or a giving him a nod of acknowledgement when they seem to make eye contact. 

His thoughts flit briefly to the note Lambert handed him, now inconspicuously stuck on the corkboard in his workshop. It’s not meant for him, really. Jaskier didn’t know Geralt was the one that carved the statue. It’s almost nicer knowing that the words weren’t expected to be answered, were given as a kindness without the desire for reciprocation.

And that's the thing. Geralt can’t bring himself to hate Jaskier, can’t seem to pick out any damning flaws about him, and that’s a _problem_.

It would be so, so much _easier_ to dislike Jaskier, to play the part of the disapproving father figure.

But Geralt _can’t_.

Rather, he looks at blue eyes and wind-tousled brown hair and thinks _beautiful_ , softens when he overhears him sharing a genuine laugh with Ciri, feels pleased knowing he’s become the occasional subject of his drawings.

The boy’s badly hidden staring had quickly become endearing rather than annoying and Geralt doesn’t know how to navigate this. Truth be told, it makes him a little green knowing that what he felt was undoubtedly attraction, palpable since Jaskier stepped into the Kaer Morhen lobby and offered an easy-going smile.

And his niece _,_ Ciri of all people, has a crush on this boy. What does it mean for him to relate to that, to some capacity? And while Geralt knows he isn’t old, he’s got to have more than a decade on Jaskier and he’s never been attracted to someone so young before. He feels both creepy and guilty as he confronts these thoughts, this tangle of emotion becoming far more messy than he signs up for when walking into work.

Geralt’s always been a simple man, with simple needs and simple wants. He makes sure his friends and family are happy and healthy, that Roach and the Kaer Morhen packs are well taken care of, and that he has the opportunity to have a long soak in his tub every so often.

His fingers begin to prune as he continues scrubbing.

Geralt decides to take this lapse of judgement to the grave. If that meant taking the long route around the enclosure whenever he sees Jaskier hanging about, then he’ll do that. He needs to stop looking too deeply into gestures, let the boy’s attention roll off of him. Geralt knows he’s not, by any means, _special_ with respect to being Jaskier’s drawing subject. Ciri met him drawing passerbys along the lake, after all. His use is but an exercise in anatomy. Jaskier has little reason to interact with him, other than keeping up good relations with Ciri’s relatives.

“Is it serious with this boy?” Geralt asks, stepping into the more appropriate role of worried guardian. It’s not completely an act, of course. He loves Ciri dearly, wants her to be happy, and his feelings are his own problem. Besides, Ciri is not one to be ignored in her requests.

At his question, Ciri twists the towel she’s still holding in her hands. She looks more unsure than he expected considering how her crush has been obvious to anyone that cared enough to look. 

Geralt doesn’t have access to Jaskier’s inner life, nor to Ciri’s. He only knows what she’s told him, second-hand accounts among the Kaer Morhen staff of their brief encounters. But Geralt knows this: if Jaskier ever did anything to hurt Ciri, simply having a pretty face would never be enough to stay his anger.

“I like spending time with him,” she starts quietly, and Geralt hangs on her every word. “But…”

Ciri looks him in the eye, and she looks so much like Pavetta. Pavetta, who was only eighteen when she had her only daughter. Young, but defiant and sure of herself when she ran away with Emhyr. 

When did their conversations begin to veer towards boys instead of ice cream and math homework and mud-stained jumpers? He’s reminded of just how much grown she is now, how much of a young lady she’s become.

“But?” Geralt asks, gently taking the twisted towel from her hands.

“Sometimes,” Ciri sighs as, with nothing more to do, her hands fall to her sides listless, “I’ll flirt and he’ll make a joke and play it off. Or pretend he didn't hear. Or I show up to the lake trying to find him, but he won’t show up for days later. I feel like an idiot looking into the crowds, waiting.”

Geralt frowns. 

“Oh, don’t look like that Uncle Geralt,” she huffs, already catching the displeasure on his face. “We never make plans to meet or anything like that.” She leans against the kitchen counter. “I may have been a little overeager in getting to know him, but you know me.”

And he does. When Ciri becomes interested in something, sets a goal for herself, she throws _everything_ into it. But people aren’t the same as soccer trophies or exam finals. Despite her rough childhood, love has always come easily to Ciri. 

Geralt, frosty as he was when he met her, was wrapped around Ciri’s finger only days after demanding to stay with her estranged uncle. Yen too, despite their rocky relationship and the fresh hurt between them. Vesemir, Lambert, Eskel, Triss... they all loved her from the onset.

Jaskier might be a different story though. This was _romance_ between young people. Capturing interest, formulating attraction or feelings or love of a different kind - that cannot be boiled down to a formula.

“If he doesn’t like me, well, I’ve gotten over crushes before. But it’s nice to imagine y’know? A chance meeting at a lake with a pretty, sensitive artist?” She lets out a forlorn sigh. “It sounds like a nice memory to look back to.”

“Ciri, are you chasing after him, or a summer romance?” Geralt can’t help but ask.

Seeking an ideal, rather than the person, was always a mistake. It’s a mistake both he and Yen made together, something that left them tangled and ragged and so glad to put that messiness behind them. He would spare Ciri the experience.

The girl tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Maybe I’m being unfair to him... In any case, I really think I’d like to have him as a friend. He doesn’t have any here, and his family lives by the coast.”

She heaves another sigh.

“He’s _really_ funny Uncle Geralt and... well, sometimes I look at him and he seems so sad, like he could use someone to just sit with him, even if that was in silence.”

“You take after Vesemir,” Geralt says, the words unwittingly pulled out of him. He thinks of his foster father-turned-adoptive parent, who founded Kaer Morhen himself. “He’s always had a penchant for strays.”

Ciri grins, “That’s not a bad thing. It’s how he ended up with you and Uncle Lambert and Uncle Eskel.”

“And you,” Geralt counters. 

Ciri smiles, eyes gentle. “That was sappy.”

“Savor it,” he shrugs, turning away only slightly embarrassed. “That cost my emotional quota for the week.”

“More like the month,” she laughs, the sound of silver bells. “So, dinner? Yay or nay?”

“Triss is coming over Sunday.”

“Not much harder to cook for four than it is for three.”

He crosses his arms, knowing there was no dodging this. Well, Geralt’s always been good at keeping his feelings bottled up. He has a string of exes to corroborate this tendency.

“Fine.”

“Thanks!” 

Ciri’s smile is instantaneous. She pecks him on the cheek before she moves to leave the kitchen.

“I’ll ask him to come around five if that’s cool. Hopefully I can catch him by the lake one of these days.”

“Hm.”

He watches her leave the room, tries to push away the sinking feeling in his stomach.

Any other day, Geralt might have taken Roach out for a walk, or went for a run to burn off this excess emotion. But Roach is sleeping and hates being disturbed, and Geralt has spent the long day trying to introduce the nameless surrender to the other packs to little success.

He grabs the keys for his pickup truck, picks a road and drives.

* * *

It’s a gloomy evening to match the gloomy week. It isn’t completely dark out, despite the time. Summer was still in effect, but the expected blue above had been retreating behind an ever increasingly thick blanket of clouds. Everything was tinted a dreary grey by the overcast sky, and Geralt can feel the humidity heavy in the air. Each lungful is sweet but heavy, slightly chilled by the promise of rain.

He hasn’t been driving long when it begins, the pitter patter against the windshield providing an off-tempo accompaniment to the songs softly playing on the radio. Habit brings him to the road near Kaer Morhen, the rain growing heavier with each second.

Despite the gloom and the rainfall, Geralt spots a figure walking beside the road. It’s not uncommon for visitors or hikers to make their way around these parts, though he feels sorry for the soaked soul as the storm continues to build. There’s a beat up umbrella in his backseat, though he wonders if there’s a point to offering it considering the strong winds sweeping through the trees bracketing the road.

Geralt entertains the idea of just driving past when a gust howls terribly and the rain violently drums against his windshield. He slows down, resigning himself to offer the person a ride to the nearby Visitor Center, if not to the summer village, to wait out the storm.

The figure becomes more familiar as he nears and _oh_. 

Of course.

It’s too late to keep driving.

(As if he would ever have kept driving.)

He stops the car and the boy looks at him through the water stained window.

_Almost like destiny._

The voice echoes in his mind and he finds himself staring at blue eyes, striking despite being red-rimmed, despite being set in a pale face, despite nose and cheeks turning a splotchy pink from the abuse of water and wind.

Geralt unclenches his jaw and rolls down the window, uncaring as water drips inside. They stare at each other, weather growing wilder around them.

“Rain can’t be good for the wood,” Geralt ends up saying. He wonders if Jaskier could hear it over the din of the storm.

Jaskier looks confused for a moment, before realizing what he’s referring too. He grasps at the strap of his dripping ukulele, hands white though Geralt isn’t sure whether it’s from the cold or his grip. He looks like a deer in the headlights, a complete contrast to his usual friendly demeanor. Somehow Jaskier seems smaller like this, brown curls plastered to his face, flouncy shirt sheer and sticking to his torso, revealing his thin frame.

Geralt leans over, holds the door without a word.

The gears in the young man’s mind seem to turn as he contemplates. Thunder roars in the distance and he finally breaks, stepping towards Geralt’s vehicle. 

Jaskier takes the instrument off his back before clambering into the truck. Once seated and belted in, he keeps the ukulele pressed close to his body.

“There’s a rag in the glove compartment,” Geralt says. “I don’t have a towel, though.”

“Thanks,” Jaskier replies. The word is so quiet it seems like the air has been stolen from Jaskier’s lungs, and Geralt can’t help but note the _wrongness_ of it all.

Geralt continues down the road, slower now, as Jaskier wipes down the instrument. The boy looks worse than Scorpion on a bath day, and Geralt cranks the heater to full blast. He wipes down the misty windows with his shirt sleeve.

A pop song plays on the radio, but it’s sugary sound is drowned by the heater, rain, and the wind, all meaning and emotion lost.

Geralt is about to ask where Jaskier lives so he can send him home. He’s even willing to offer to call Ciri if he wants someone to talk to, because Geralt isn't sure he's equipped with the sensitivity to handle this situation. What could drive Jaskier to this state, wandering the woods in a storm without recourse?

_He’s really funny Uncle Geralt and... well, sometimes I look at him and he seems so sad, like he could use someone to just sit with him, even if that was in silence._

There’s a familiar turn off at the end of the road, and Geralt follows it until he can safely pull over and park the car. He says nothing as he leans back into his seat, waiting for Jaskier to gather himself.

Jaskier is still dripping onto his seats, but some of the warmth seems to have returned to his cheeks.

“Have you ever ran away from something, Geralt?” the boy finally says, breaking the stillness between them.

It’s not a question he was expecting, but Geralt lets the question dissolve. He thinks of Calanthe’s constant calling. The funerals he never showed up for. Emhyr’s prior apologies that he never really accepted. Even now, with his only brother by blood having long been buried.

Geralt thinks of Jaskier’s bitter tone after mentioning wolves would rather run away than fight. 

_Now, isn’t that relatable,_ Jaskier had said. Vaguely, Geralt wonders when each word had been so safely stored away.

That sour tone had been enough of a deviation in his demeanor that it gave him pause. For all his smiling and easy conversation, seeing Jaskier soaked to the bone, hollowed out like this - Geralt now knows Jaskier has more hidden than he was showing him, showing Ciri.

(Part of Geralt aches to peel back the layers.)

It would be so easy to dodge the question, to hum and provide nothing in response.

Instead, Geralt hears himself say, “Yes.”

The quiet returns as he can’t muster the courage to elaborate.

An even brighter pop song starts to play on the radio but Jaskier reaches out to turn it off.

“It can be fun to run away,” Jaskier says, finger still on the button. Silence fills the car, the cacophony of the outside world orchestra to his statement. “It stops being fun when you notice the blisters on your feet.”

Geralt swallows.

“Should I call Ciri?” he finally offers. She had said he didn’t have any friends here, that his family lived by the coast. Geralt doesn’t want to leave him alone.

Jaskier shakes his head. He brings his hand to his throat as his other arms presses to his stomach, seeming to retreat into himself further.

“I'm bothering you. I should go,” Jaskier murmurs instead. He looks out into the rain, into the indistinct forest. Still as he is, Geralt can see him beginning to run.

“I’ll drive you home,” he says quickly. “You could get sick like this.”

“I don’t want to be there right now,” Jaskier confesses, a little panicked. He presses his palms to his eyes, mouth twisting. “It’s fine. Just drop me off somewhere. What’s a little water, a little cold?”

There’s a tremble to his body.

“I’ve survived worse.”

Unable to find the right words to coax the boy into speaking, Geralt reaches out instead. Warm hands find their way to Jaskier’s wrists, gently pulling them away to reveal the blue hidden underneath, eyes ethereal against the grey of the outside world.

The contact seems to ground him, tense shoulders loosening ever so slightly.

“Sometimes, I just can’t get out of my head,” Jaskier murmurs.

There are dark circles under his eyes, fine skin looking bruised. Geralt wonders how long it’s been since he’s last slept properly, wonders how long ago he stopped visiting the sanctuary because Jaskier looked just fine then.

Geralt doesn’t offer words of comfort, doesn’t know how. He begins to drive again, one hand on the wheel and the other still gently clasping a cold wrist. 

Jaskier’s pulse thrums steadily under his fingertip, skin blessedly growing warmer as they pull into Kaer Morhen.

* * *

Geralt bundles Jaskier up in a shirt and a hoodie pilfered from the closed gift shop. The jogging pants are his though, grabbed from his stash of backup clothing from his locker. When Jaskier emerges from the change room, Geralt notices the pants haven’t been cuffed though they scrunch a little at the ends. He’s tall, despite how small he seems now.

Jaskier’s hair is still wet and Geralt hands him a towel that’s designated for the wolfdogs. It’s clean though, freshly laundered from their industrial machines, so it serves his purpose. When he doesn’t do anything with it, Geralt moves to dry his hair himself like he would with one of the pups. Fluffy, damp curls emerge from under his ministrations. 

In this moment, the boy reminds him of one of their latest surrender, the young one still left nameless. The pup was a flighty thing, ears kept pressed close to her head as she took in the sights and sounds and smells of each new enclosure. They’re tried introducing her to different packs, but she hasn't taken to any of them so far except having a long staring matching with Bellegarde from a distance.

Geralt wasn’t sure what to make of her, and his brothers teased him for how seriously he was contemplating her name - a habit he formed as a teen, when Vesemir first took him in and he started helping with the chores around Kaer Morhen. Geralt would change their surrenders’ names several times until the feeling fit perfectly, and this habit carried on well into adulthood.

He guides Jaskier, hand pressed between shoulder blades, to the break room, seating him on the couch before turning on a coffee machine.

“Do you want to talk?” Geralt finally asks, still turned away from him. The question had been fermenting during their drive over, but he still has trouble formulating the words.

Jaskier stays quiet. Geralt glances back, seeing him stare into nothing. That’s fine. He’s a practitioner in silences himself. He can wait.

When the drip is done, he brings two mugs and places them on the coffee table before grabbing sugar and creamer. When Jaskier makes no move to drink, he frowns and presses the mug in his hands. The boy drinks it black.

They sit, shoulder to shoulder on the small couch, drinking their coffee.

“I got a call,” Jaskier finally says.

“Bad news?”

He hums. “An old friend contacted me, if you could call him that.”

Jaskier takes a sip from the mug, gathering his thoughts.

“He hasn’t spoken to me in years. All of a sudden it’s _‘Hey darling, listen, heard you’re back on your feet. Hey, how about you come join me in my latest show, eh? We need you, it’ll be good for you. C’mon, what do you say? Everyone misses you!’_ ”

Jaskier places his mug on the table, pulls his blanket tighter around him. Geralt can feel him shake. From frustration? Sadness? He can’t suss out the emotions.

“Needs me,” the brunette hisses. “Misses me? More like misses _using_ me.”

Anger, then. The laugh Jaskier barks out is so incredibly bitter that Geralt’s hand goes white knuckled around his mug.

“They never visited! Never bothered to even _call._ They scattered to the winds after I was out of commission and useless to them, and now he has the audacity to beg me a favor!”

A few furious tears fall from his eyes and Geralt is at a loss. There’s no context to this conversation and he’s being thrown puzzle pieces without reference. Geralt isn’t sure what he’s allowed to ask, if he should push.

“Shit,” Jaskier curses, wiping away the tears before taking a calming breath. “I’m sorry. I’m sure this wasn’t how you were expecting to spend your evening.”

“No,” Geralt says, because at least this is a question he can answer easily. “But I couldn’t exactly let you drown in the rain.”

“Good samaritan?” Jaskier asks, eyes at least softer but still red-rimmed as he looks up at him.

He thinks of Vesemir and Ciri, of their penchant for picking up strays. He doubts this proclivity skipped a generation.

“There are worse ways to spend an evening,” Geralt shrugs.

“Charmer.” His tone is lighter, but just as soon as the smile appears on his face, so does the cheer. The light in his eyes dim and the young man sinks deeper into the couch, lids closing and hiding him away from the world.

Managing emotions have always been exhausting to Geralt. He’s not sure what it’s like to be Jaskier, someone who obviously felt so much.

“Can I stay here for a little longer, Geralt?”

“As long as you like,” he answers, because he means it.

Jaskier doesn’t say thank you, but Geralt doesn’t need him to. The young man presses further into his side, head coming to rest on his shoulder. Damp curls tickle his neck, smelling of rain. 

The storm outside rages, but here there is quiet.

* * *

Sunday comes, but Geralt only makes dinner for three.

When Triss asks whether he’s chosen a name for the nameless pup she’s been taking care of, he nods.

“Buttercup.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I have to say that you to everyone that continues to support this story! Every bit of feedback I get is really motivating, whether it be a comment, kudos, bookmark or subscription. I'm having a lot of fun playing with the characters in this universe, and hope you're having fun with them too.
> 
> Please stay safe, be kind to yourselves, and I'll see you next time!
> 
> (Also sorry to whoever got the subscription email, I messed up chapter summary ^^;; Accidentally posted it instead of previewing and I didn't catch the switch, haha.)


	5. Relative Strangers

In the morning, Jaskier wakes to find the living room and kitchen tidier than he remembers leaving it. Dishes have been cleaned and put away, the garbage tossed out, countertops wiped down.

Mortification sweeps over him like a tidal wave, realizing Geralt has now bore witness not only to his tears, but also the cottage's accumulated mess during the week and a half of his melancholy.

The care is too much, the kindness too intimate, and Jaskier can feel his anxiety overtaking. He takes a few calming breaths, tries to remember what his therapist taught him, and barely manages to stave off a panic attack.

He vaguely remembers Geralt sending him home, how he saw him tucked into bed even. That was already far more support than he would have expected from a relative stranger, but Jaskier had been so _out of it._ The extent of his own defenselessness and Geralt’s care never fully registered.

In the morning light though, the memory of each action comes into vivid detail. A note left on his coffee table confirmed last night was not, in fact, some fatigued-driven dream.

Two phone numbers and a short message were scrawled in surprisingly neat penmanship.

_Let at least one of us know you’re okay. -G_

“Shit.”

Dread fills Jaskier’s stomach as he uses a smiley face magnet to stick the note to his fridge.

Though Jaskier’s sure it was not Geralt’s intention, leaving him both contacts was practically a gauntlet thrown at his feet. Messaging Ciri was akin to opening a Pandora’s box of questions and explanations. Letting her know he was okay meant signaling he wasn’t okay in the first place.

Jaskier would have to explain how he came into possession of her number, talk about how her uncle had stumbled upon him looking like a drowned rat, explain _why_ Geralt was worried. It was admitting to his weaknesses, letting out a secret, _exposing himself_.

His mind flashes back to private conversations leaked, the paparazzi being tipped off about his doctor’s appointments, photographers always watching. How after Cyprian’s call, his head became an ever-turning wheel of betrayal and abandonment and...

He doesn’t want Ciri to know.

On the other hand, contacting Geralt... that meant keeping up his so far convincing veneer of casual cheer. Geralt wouldn’t demand explanation the same way Ciri would, proven by his quiet support the night prior. Jaskier is doubtful the man told his niece of what transpired, considering he’s giving Jaskier the chance to contact her himself.

Once Jaskier has made perfunctory contact, let Geralt know he was alive and on his feet again, both parties could wash their hands of each other and move on.

It’s easier.

Jaskier wants things to be easy for once.

He writes and rewrites his message several times, trying and failing to find the right words to say thank you for both the comfort and the clean kitchen. He could just call, but cowardice claws at him and Jaskier can’t bring himself to press dial. 

After deleting his seventh draft, Jaskier finally puts down his cellphone. He goes through his vocal exercises instead, attempts and fails to meditate, and answers a concerned voicemail from his mom.

_Yes, yes, he’s doing just fine._

(He wasn’t expecting to have to lie so much. Not here. Ghost Lake was meant to be a refuge.)

He ends up thoughtlessly sending Geralt a photo of his cold tea, hand peeking into the frame with an okay gesture. Stupid. Impulsive. No words, no explanations. Just bare minimum contact, an indication that he’s okay, and well enough to free Geralt of any responsibility towards him.

Jaskier isn’t prepared for a reply.

He receives another photo in kind, no words in tandem with his prior text, just coffee in a Kaer Morhen mug. This little snapshot of Geralt’s life prompts a small smile, but Jaskier doesn’t think much more of it when he closes the message.

That’s that.

Jaskier takes a nap because the tiredness he’s felt over the course of the past week hasn’t really left him. Overthinking his interactions with Geralt and Ciri didn’t help, either.

When he awakes to another chime from his phone, he expects the message to be from Priscilla or maybe his parents. He’s surprised when it’s another notification from the silver-haired man.

This time, Jaskier receives a photo of a sandwich and bag of chips. He checks the time. Past noon. 

_‘Are you eating?’_ the photo seemed to ask.

Jaskier bites his lip. He doesn’t feel particularly hungry, appetite lacking these days, but drags himself out of bed anyway. His response is a bowl of rainbow cereal. Not exactly nutritious, but it’s fast and goes down easy.

There’s no reply from Geralt, words or photo-wise, but feelings of anticipation begin to swell as Jaskier methodically chews on the sugary puffs.

They’re put to rest when he receives another photo around dinnertime.

This time, Geralt’s photo is a plate of pasta and salad, Roach looking up at the dining table from the floor expectantly. Jaskier sends a photo of his half-eaten sandwich as a reply, smiling absentmindedly as he does so.

It’s a nice game - a comfort to know someone was checking in on him in a way that didn’t feel intrusive or condescending. There’s not much he can read through a photo, the way he could with words or voice or body language. It’s simple.

Jaskier thinks the exchange has come to an end along with the day, but he receives another photo before bed.

The photo Geralt sends is of the moon waning crescent in a starry filled sky. Jaskier can feel his face warm, because unlike the other pictures this wasn’t practical. It didn’t have the same function as making sure he was alive, that he was eating. It was a goodnight text.

Jaskier responds with a photo of the same subject through his bedroom window, almost identical. He can hear the wolves (or perhaps wolfdogs) howling in the distance as he presses send, and a warm feeling of connection overtakes him knowing that Geralt was probably seeing, and hearing, the same things that he could. It’s grounding.

The creatures howl and Jaskier never could have imagined such a sweet lullaby. Closing his eyes, he quietly sings old songs in the dark, sweet things he’s long ago buried, as thanks.

The next morning, he awakes early to the ding of his phone. Jaskier doesn’t think twice before he sends a photo of the pink-orange sunrise in response.

* * *

It becomes something of a habit between them. Intermittent photos. 

(Howling and songs.)

No words, no explanations. He isn’t exactly sure what Geralt gets out of their exchange. Maybe it’s just Geralt’s brand of kindness. Maybe Jaskier has proven charming enough for him to worry about him in particular. Jaskier vastly prefers this possibility, though he remains skeptical considering the man’s taciturn demeanor during his visits.

Geralt was obvious in his avoidance, though Jaskier wasn’t sure exactly what he did to warrant the wariness. It hurt a little, but Jaskier swore to keep his head down during his move, and knew not to push. He settled for the contentedness of drawing Geralt from afar, resisting the impulse to approach.

As Jaskier opens his phone to see a photo of Roach on his morning walk, he muses that he’s not completely prescribing to his earlier resolution.

Geralt is… fascinating. Impassive but kind, somewhat awkward but gentle. It lights up something in Jaskier and he wants to chase it, be bolder than he has been in a long time, yet each interaction with Geralt makes him feel more than a little meek.

Jaskier hasn’t sought him out since that night, not quite prepared to leave the safety of his cabin, but the need to thank the older man continues to grow with each message. Staring at the photo, Jaskier decides to be greedy about Geralt once more, taking advantage of the attention for as long he’s not considered a burden.

He’d been wrecked after Cyprian’s call. Cyprian, with his flattering, jovial tone talking of old times and what fun they had. He knows that he should’ve hung up, called Priscilla as soon as he knew his number had gotten out, but he’d been sucked into the conversation.

For a brief, stupidic moment, Jaskier really thought the man was trying to reconnect. Then the illusion shattered once the show manager dropped mention of his latest event. Dandelion could benefit from the exposure because, hey, wasn’t he irrelevant now? Weren’t the labels wary of him after he couldn’t complete his last album? That he was now a risk? This is an opportunity with his best interests in mind. He should be glad.

(Yes. Yes. Yes.)

Jaskier mumbled an excuse about still recovering, that he’d stay in touch, but it had taken all his energy not to yell into the speaker.

(He pretends he doesn’t miss it. Doesn’t miss the adrenaline rush of a performance, the crowds looking at him, loving him. Feeling whole.)

Jaskier is used to drowning in his thoughts, though often he has someone to pull him back to shore. Usually this was Priscilla and her frequent visits, or his appointments with Dr. Davens. Even contact with his housekeeper and gardener helped him keep afloat. He had appearances to keep up, even with them. 

But here, by Ghost Lake… it was just so _easy_ to disappear.

Fight or flight, indeed.

Jaskier thinks of warm hands around his wrists, how gently the touch asked him to stop running.

* * *

He forces himself to go out on a Thursday, finding Ciri and Roach in their usual spot by the lake.

She’s reading a book, and Jaskier is reminded of their first meeting nearing two months ago. It would be so easy to turn around right now, avoid her just as he’s been doing with her knocks on his cabin door, but she deserves better than being so callously ignored.

Jaskier steels himself and takes a seat beside her.

Roach, surprisingly, seems excited to see him again. She tucks her cold nose against his calf as he gives her a good scratch. It’s nice to be welcomed back.

Ciri just keeps reading her book. Despite the warm day, the air between them is frosty. Jaskier notices she hasn’t turned the page.

He keeps his eyes to the lake, watching the waves upon the shore, pretending the silence isn’t so thick.

“Out with it,” Ciri says, sharply snapping her book shut. It seems she has finally gotten tired of the awkward atmosphere. She keeps her eyes trained on the book cover, brow furrowed, and Jaskier worries that she’s gotten tired of him too. 

Jaskier feels horrible for worrying her, causing her to frown so. He picks at a thread that’s coming loose on his shorts, suddenly feeling the need to fidget under the weight of this tense situation.

“How have you been?” he ultimately settles for.

It’s a horrible segue. He knows it. Ciri knows it. Her audible scoff confirms it.

She finally turns to look at him, face scrunched as she glares. She’s looking for something, but only seems to get more annoyed with him each passing second.

“I should be asking _you_ that, considering you’re the one that’s been MIA.”

“Ah, that.” Jaskier snaps the thread by accident. His finger is sore from where it was winding. “I’ve been… busy.”

“Busy,” Ciri repeats, peeved.

The lie is laughable. He’s told her several times that he’s simply lounging about until the summer’s over, his art more a hobby rather than a career. If he was going to be busy, he would’ve let her know. But Jaskier was a slave to his emotions. You can’t plan for something that swallows you up out of nowhere.

He just nods, committing because he’s not sure what else he can say without spilling his guts. Rather than get angry at his reticence, Ciri just seems to deflate.

“Listen,” Ciri starts, voice serious and angling her body towards him, “do you care for me at all?”

Jaskier swallows, feeling horrible that she’d been driven to ask.

“Yes,” Jaskier says, because it’s true.

Ciri may not be the closest friend (just yet), not the dearest (Jaskier hasn’t had that spot filled in a long time), but Ciri’s company was one of the tethers that kept him from drifting. His spiraling was probably an eventuality, but it was no doubt staved off by their constant contact.

(He feels even more horrible now, knowing he’s keeping so much from her.)

“Then please,” Ciri pleads, and her voice is raw, frustrated, “don’t stonewall me all of a sudden. It was like you dropped off the face of the planet! I know you have no friends or family around here, I had no way to contact you and you never opened your door-”

“I-”

“Don’t lie,” she interrupts, more annoyed than he’s ever seen her. He doesn’t know if he can promise that, and the guilt eats away at him. “If I hadn’t heard you shuffling around in your house, I would have thought you got lost in the woods.”

Her lip trembles.

“If you ever want to stop meeting, do me the courtesy of breaking things off to my face so I don’t spend my time worrying about you.”

His chest hurts, and the words are not enough.

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” Ciri sighs, less angry and more tired.

“I am,” he says with as much conviction as he can. “Really, Ciri. I’m so sorry. I haven’t -” he sighs, “I haven’t been doing so great. Mentally.”

She softens at this, eyes kind. He can see Geralt in her, and the thought of their shared kindness makes his chest hurt. It’s been so long that he’s been offered something genuine, without expectation of anything grandiose in return.

Her hand grasps his elbow. 

“You can talk to me.”

He thinks about it. 

Has thought about telling her everything, really, but what is he supposed to say? Jaskier is sure that Ciri wouldn’t go running to the press about his story or anything like that. She’s too far removed, sheltered, from the ambition of those obsessed with celebrity.

Ciri didn’t seem to have her finger to the pulse of pop culture either. He knows this from her interests, the topics she brings up. To her, music was just sound, not a lifestyle. While she liked Valdo Marx numbers well enough, she probably couldn’t pick him out of a crowd the same way she couldn’t with Dandelion.

But most of all, he knows Ciri is _good._ Jaskier can tell by how she speaks of people, can tell this by how much everyone around her loves her - Lambert, _Geralt_.

And still.

Still, Jaskier finds he can’t be vulnerable. He feels all the more horrible for not being able to force it.

“Jaskier?”

“I know,” he answers truthfully. If he could rip the words out of his throat, he would.

A beat passes between then. A stand-off.

Jaskier finds another thread to pick at.

“Well,” Ciri sighs, letting him have his out, “if you’re going to be sorry, you’re going to have to earn my forgiveness.”

There’s a levity to her voice that Jaskier wasn’t expecting. It’s more grace than he deserves and he’s grateful. 

“And just how can I do that?” he asks, feeling emotionally exhausted but still able to smile.

“Your number, first of all,” she says, handing him her cell. “All this time, and we don’t actually have a legit way to contact each other.”

Jaskier barely stops himself from confessing that he’s had hers for awhile. Guilt bubbles in his stomach again, but he pushes it back down. He enters his number, saying nothing.

(Pretends he isn’t a little nervous about how his list of contacts is growing.)

“And what now, dear Cirilla?” Jaskier asks, handing her the device back with faux cheer.

He’s somewhat relieved she didn’t ask to enter her number in his phone. It’s lunch time. Geralt would probably send a photo soon. If he suddenly received a message while it was in her possession... It feels wrong to be so cagey about such a thing.

“Hm,” she hums, not seeming to catch his warring thoughts. She taps the cell to her chin as she thinks.

As if on cue, Jaskier feels his phone buzz in his pocket. Though his fingers twitch to check, he keeps them at his side.

“Take me to lunch tomorrow,” Ciri ultimately commands, appearing somewhat regal in both tone and the way she eyes him. “Your treat, of course.”

She’s still annoyed with him, Jaskier can tell, but the familiar light in her eyes is coming back.

“Of course,” he smiles, pushing his worry to the sidelines. He chances a joke, “Whatever the Princess commands.”

She rolls her eyes at him and that’s, at least, a familiar sight. While they haven’t solved everything between them, it feels a little less like running.

(The cellphone burns in his pocket though. It’s not exactly another lie, but it feels like one.)

* * *

Jaskier waits outside the giftshop, hiding in the shade as he texts Ciri his location. The idea was to get in and get out. Hiding meant he was less likely to bump into Geralt, giving him more time to think of how to properly thank the man for what he did.

(What he’s still doing.)

The time would also help Jaskier practice speaking in a way that didn’t leave him tongue tied.

Two minutes into his plan, Jaskier finds this goal a failed endeavor.

Geralt seems just as surprised to see him, judging from the way his eyes widen after turning the corner. He’s holding his lunchbox. Jaskier knows because it’s a recurring subject in their noon-time photo messages.

“Hi,” Jaskier ends up saying with a tentative smile and a small wave. There’s a nervous fluttering in his chest that he attributes to embarrassment, but knows is also part something else.

His wrists tingle.

“Hi,” the older man echoes, not quite smiling though Jaskier can see the soft crinkle at the corner of his eye.

It’s a hot day, but Jaskier suddenly feels warmer than he had been a moment ago.

Not for the first time, Jaskier figures he would pay a fortune to learn what’s going on in Geralt’s head. Jaskier has had a lot of time to reflect on that night, wondering how he should act when he eventually saw Geralt again. Deep in his heart, he knew it would be an eventuality rather than a possibility.

Something about how Geralt looks at him makes Jaskier think that the older man has felt this too. It’s like the world between them has shifted slightly, despite everything going on as per normal. No one but the two of them realized something was off-kilter.

Jaskier wasn’t prepared for the extent of his butterflies though.

“You look well,” Geralt says. To his surprise, Geralt leans against the building, filling the empty space beside him with his broad shoulders.

He’s close.

(But not close enough.)

The ghost of Geralt’s body tingles. Jaskier can practically smell the rain, recall how he felt safe pressed against him, walls down completely. He wants to feel that again.

“I am well,” Jaskier says, mouth dry. He takes a deep breath. “Thanks to you.”

Geralt hums. It’s a lovely sound. 

(What would it be like to lean his head against that chest, feel the rumble of that sound against his cheek?)

“No more walks in the rain then?” Geralt asks, and now there’s a true smile on his face. Jaskier’s not quite sure how old Geralt is, but it makes him seem so much younger. If he were feeling bolder, he’d sneak out his phone to take a picture. Alas, memory would have to suffice.

He shakes his head instead. “The weather’s been good lately.”

“Good.”

“Yes, good.”

There’s silence between them, but it’s not uncomfortable. Geralt’s smile is still there and it's nice. Safe.

So many things are bottled up inside Jaskier, a nervous energy aching to burst through. His stomach is doing is doing flips and Jaskier isn't _stupid_. He knows what this means, despite never having felt it so intensely before. Jaskier has identified his little crush a while ago, but it’s grown into something _more_ , something almost unmanageable.

Jaskier shifts, unable to keep himself still as his mind starts spinning. He’s not looking at Geralt, suddenly finding how the trees in the distance, bending to the wind, fascinating.

He hears Geralt huff beside him, and if Jaskier wasn’t thinking so hard he might've concluded the older man is amused by his obvious nervousness.

Geralt stands up straighter, his arm accidentally touching Jaskier’s own with the movement. Jaskier feels all that bristling energy inside him still. It’s like holding a breath. His heart goes into overdrive at the brief contact.

The man doesn’t move away. As the seconds pass by, Jaskier lets himself breathe.

“Geralt...” he starts.

Jaskier’s not quite sure what he wants to say but knows that he wants to say something.

“Yes?” It’s a quiet reply.

(Dandelion was never one for quiet but Jaskier has come to appreciate it.)

“I want you to know -”

“Jask, sorry I’m late!”

They hear Ciri's frantic call before they see her. She rounds the corner all of a sudden, out of breath and flushed, and Jaskier can feel Geralt tense beside him. The older man pushes himself up from where he was leaning, contact between them breaking, and Jaskier at once feels bereft.

“Oh, Uncle Geralt, hi.”

She seems confused to see them there, hidden in the dark, and Jaskier’s heart starts to beat harder for a different reason. Her brows are furrowed but soon come to smooth out as she smiles.

“Keeping Jaskier company for me?”

“Hm,” Geralt shuffles further away. If Jaskier wasn’t staring so hard, he’d probably miss the tightness in his shoulders. “You two heading out?” he asks.

Jaskier slips his hand in his pocket, gripping his phone tight. He needs something to do with his hands. There’s something about Geralt’s tone that makes him feel like he did when they first met.

“Jaskier’s taking me to lunch,” Ciri smiles. “His treat.”

“I see.” Geralt responds with a smile of his own, but it doesn’t make Jaskier feel the same comfort of his earlier expression. Jaskier can’t help but miss it, can’t help but feel he’s done something wrong.

“Don’t stay out too late,” the man ends up saying, not even looking at Jaskier. 

A dismissal. Not a cruel one, but unmistakable if one was paying attention.

“No need to nag,” Ciri jokes.

“No need to roll your eyes at me,” Geralt responds.

Right. Fuck. Geralt is Ciri’s uncle.

Jaskier’s been aware of it all this time, of course, but hasn’t really _felt_ it until they were all in the same place together. Suddenly it feels like a gulf has widened between them.

While they might’ve shared an intimate moment, weren’t they still strangers? Wasn’t he much older than Jaskier? Was Jaskier simply being treated like a child, the same way he takes care of Ciri? His mind starts spinning.

“Have fun,” Geralt says to the two of them as he moves further away. Jaskier can’t tell if he means it.

Jaskier doesn’t offer any resistance when Ciri loops his arm with hers, drags him off to her car. He doesn’t try to puzzle out the slight beginnings of the frown on Geralt’s face as they leave either, not wanting to let his imagination run off with him.

Later, when the waitress places their lunch in front of them, Jaskier doesn’t think and snaps a quick photo. He sends it off to Geralt without a second thought. Habit.

(An apology. A please let things return to normal, whatever normal was between them.)

Ciri looks at him oddly as he stares at his phone, but continues her story about ill-fated dates with Dara without pause. Jaskier laughs at all the right places, but there’s something cold in the pit of his stomach when he doesn’t hear the phone buzz even hours later.

He sends a picture of his leftovers at dinner.

No response.

Jaskier tosses the food in the garbage, and goes to bed with an aching stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to say thank you to everyone that gave feedback and left some love last chapter! Really wasn't expecting the response and it really warmed by heart to read your comments (o´ω｀o) I'm starting a new internship tomorrow and I'll actually be doing writing for a commercial project which is very exciting, but I'm gonna try my best to keep to on schedule for this fic! As always, appreciate any feedback you guys have for me no matter the form!
> 
> Hope you're all doing well and keeping safe. Be kind to yourselves, and I'll see you next time!


	6. Greed and Indulgence

“-and then she chewed me out just ‘cus I got some dirt on her floor. You’d think seeing me after two weeks would be more important than-”

Geralt barely registers Lambert’s complaints about his on-and-off girlfriend, instead focusing on basting the venison in butter and making sure it doesn’t overcook.

He makes a mental note to send something as thanks to Marilka and her mother for supplying him the prime cuts of their latest hunt. Maybe some of the summer squash from the garden, along with a jar of wildflower honey from Eskel’s bees.

“- and it’s not like Keira wants us to move in together! I’ve asked about it before but she keep making up excuses to -”

Once Geralt’s sure he’s achieved a perfect medium-rare, he removes the steaks from the cast iron, plating them alongside roasted asparagus and garlic potatoes. He spoons a generous amount of red wine sauce over the plate, deep red and full bodied. Roach hobbles after him, drooling, as he places the food at the dining table.

It’s picture perfect. He almost snaps a photo before remembering that routine is over and done with.

“So I told her - damn, this looks great,” Lambert breaks off from his rant, seeming to decide food is more important than airing his grievances. For all the shit he put Geralt through about Yen years ago, Lambert had no qualms falling into disastrous love affairs.

“You’ve come a long way from nuking SpaghettiOs while they were still in the can,” his brother remarks.

Geralt grimaces at the memory. “Thought for sure Vesemir was gonna box my ears in after seeing the microwave.”

“Yeah,” Lambert laughs, bitterness barely edging his words. “Never knew that could happen to metal. If we’d been placed in any other home, a few bruises would’ve been an even tradeoff.”

“Got lucky.”

“More than most,” his brother agrees before steering the conversation somewhere less dark. “Where’s Ciri anyways? I wanna dig in before this gets cold.”

“Shut up in her room.”

She’s been quiet lately, but Geralt’s refrained from pushing her to talk; Eskel had once sardonically stated that they both lashed out like injured animals when forced to speak out, a better indicator of their blood ties than their pale hair.

After experiencing the tendency during her teen years, Geralt concluded it was best to let her think through her problems alone when she was in such a mood. Ciri always came to him once things had settled down anyways.

“She’s been on edge for whatever reason, so tone down your ribbing,” Geralt continues.

He can hear her sometimes, on the phone with Calanthe or one of her friends, so it’s not like she’s completely isolating herself. He can’t fault her for choosing others to air her concerns.

“She seems fine at work.”

“Wouldn’t know,” Geralt admits gruffly. “We haven’t been on the same tasks lately.”

Geralt doesn’t begrudge giving her space, either. It’s the same reason why both he and Lambert opted to move out of Vesemir’s. Eskel probably would’ve left their childhood home years ago if they ended up moving back in. Seeing their family at work was already plenty, not accounting for the dinners each of them hosted throughout the week.

“Huh.” Lambert’s face scrunches up before he shakes himself out of whatever thought festered in his mind. “So this offering is meant to appease our tiny she-devil?”

“In a way,” Geralt responds, eyes flicking up to the stairs. He hopes Ciri didn’t hear Lambert calling her by her childhood nickname. He wants to have a nice time with them tonight.

“Should’ve told me.” Lambert mutters, getting up from his place at the table. ”Would’ve picked up some ice cream on the way. You’re shit at making dessert.”

“Where are you going?”

“To get her, obviously. As good as this looks I’m not trusting smell alone to lure her down.” His brother trudges up the stairs, seeming more like the teenager he used to be than the thirty-three year old he is now. “I’m starved! I want to eat!”

Geralt cracks open a beer and waits at the table. As he ignores Roach’s silent begging, he can hear muffled conversation from upstairs. He pulls out his phone to check his messages, absently flicking open the camera app. Geralt can’t help but wince as the window pops up, the plate in front of him already in frame.

It’s been a week since Jaskier’s last message, since Geralt decided to step back completely from the odd ritual they found themselves in. Part of Geralt misses the check-ins, always half-expecting to see Jaskier’s text of a pretty sunrise, or a bowl of ice cream with a questionable array of mix-ins.

The last non-food photo Geralt had received was a sketch of Bellegarde, probably from one of his visits to Kaer Morhen. Geralt couldn’t help but save that one. Doesn’t matter though. It seems Jaskier’s finally given up on the correspondence.

Geralt couldn’t blame him for that.

He clearly remembers Ciri looping her arm around Jaskier’s own before she dragged him to lunch.

(His treat.)

They looked natural together. Comfortable. Jaskier looked leagues better than he did that night in the rain, too. As soon as Geralt saw the two young people together, he knew he should stop his little indulgence. He wasn’t needed anymore. 

A large part of him feels like he’s taken advantage, basked in the attention of someone that simply didn’t have anyone else to support them. The thought made him feel somewhat ill.

“Oi, are you seriously turning down a five-star meal for some shitty diner food?”

Lambert follows Ciri as she hurries down the stairs.

“I made plans already,” Ciri responds, focusing more on her phone than him.

“Your uncle slaved away over a hot stove all evening, and you’re planning to run off?” Lambert gives her an exaggerated pout as he takes his seat at the table.

“It’s Friday,” Ciri says, pocketing the device. “I said I’d meet up with some people and I can’t back out now. I’m picking up my friends from their hotel.”

“And just who are these ruffians stealing away my favorite niece? Who’s more important than _family_?” Lambert places a hand on his heart, feigning hurt.

Ciri snorts at his clowning. “Radovid and Adda. They’re stopping here before heading to the hot springs for the weekend.”

“Third wheeling on their romantic getaway? That’s sad, Ciri,” Lambert teases.

“Don’t need you to tell me that.”

“Why not bring the pretty artist with you? Make it a double date instead.”

Geralt presses his mouth into a thin line as Lambert continues to bug Ciri over Jaskier. It takes him a moment to register that Ciri’s expression mirrors his own.

“He cancelled, if you must know.”

“Oh? Trouble in paradise?”

“Ugh, you are so annoying,” she huffs, ignoring the jibe. Ciri looks at Geralt, eyes flicking briefly to the food before grabbing her purse. There’s something indecipherable in her expression. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Geralt says, backing off. It’s nothing to fight over, and she’s an adult. As much as he wanted this dinner to be a surprise, he could’ve asked if she had other plans. “I’ll wrap it up for you. You might want it later.”

“Nah, give it to Uncle Lambert. If he doesn’t want it...” she shrugs. “You could always use it for a photo.”

The front door closes with a click as she leaves.

It’s a small remark, but Geralt still finds himself taken aback.

There’s something cold in his chest, not quite panic, but he nevertheless feels frantic trying to follow the thread of her thoughts. Geralt wonders if Jaskier has said anything, if the young man had confided in her their little exchange.

If he did, maybe she was cross that he hid that from her, knowing how much she liked this boy?

“You’re not the Instagram type,” Ciri had joked, catching him take a photo of his lunch one afternoon. She’d looked at him curiously then, but dropped her interrogation after Roach decided to be a nuisance and beg for scraps.

It was most likely an off-the-cuff remark, a callback to his out-of-character behavior prior, but it still stirs up something in Geralt. He wants to say he has nothing to feel guilty for, that he was simply lending a helping hand that he would’ve extended to anyone... and yet.

He takes a bite of his venison as Lambert starts complaining of his love life once more.

It’s gone slightly cold.

* * *

Ciri doesn’t have dinner with him the next few days. When she does finally opts to stay in, Geralt feels like he’s under the microscope, a particularly confusing specimen to be observed.

* * *

He’s giving Roach a bath in the yard when she shows up from wherever she’s been hiding away. His niece is still as subdued as she has been for the last week, and Geralt wonders if he should change his usual wait-and-see tactic, actually ask her what’s going on.

“Need some help?” Ciri asks, already removing her hoodie and draping it over one of the lawn chairs.

Roach wriggles about the kiddie pool meant for her baths, looking completely displeased as Geralt wets her fur down with the garden hose’s slow trickle.

“Please,” he grunts, patting the pup’s back and willing her to stop moving about.

Ciri takes the hose from him, and he can finally focus on calming the dog down. Once Roach settles, Geralt begins lathering up some sort of biodegradable pet shampoo Triss had gifted him during their last dinner. The smell is pleasant, if a little strong.

He speeds up his ministrations as Roach begins to squirm again, annoyed at the attention.

“Milva invited me to stay with her for a few days,” Ciri says, as she gently washes away the soap from Roach’s coat. “Vesemir already gave me the okay to use some of my vacation time. Be gone about a week.”

“Late notice,” Geralt remarks as he takes a towel, ready to stop Roach from running off as soon as they take her out of the pool. He tries not to think too deeply into Ciri’s decision, doesn’t want his mind to get away with him.

“Is that problem?”

“‘Course not,” he hums. “Not like you need my permission.”

“Right...”

Geralt observes her from the corner of his eye. He flips through every conversation they’ve had, but he just can’t nail down what would be troubling her.

“Uncle Geralt…”

“Yes?”

She’s looking at him again, like he’s something to be observed. There’s something on the tip of her tongue. Geralt can practically see her struggle to speak; it’s something he’s familiar with.

Several voices talk over each other in his mind. Vesemir, Eskel, Yen.

 _Ask her,_ they say. _Ask her if she’s okay. Ask her what’s wrong._

“Nevermind,” Ciri says, cutting the conversation off before Geralt could muster up his resolve. She lifts Roach out of the plastic pool, completely ruining her Kaer Morhen shirt in the process.

Geralt bites his tongue. They work together in silence.

* * *

The day after Ciri leaves to visit her friend, he gets the text.

Texts, to be more accurate.

He’s just finishing the most pathetic dinner he’s eaten in years when his phone buzzes. He opens it absentmindedly, expecting a courtesy message from Ciri stating that she’s arrived at her destination. Instead, Geralt finds himself staring at the ugliest pie he’s ever seen.

Pies, in his opinion, are meant to be rustic but there was something particularly questionable about the unevenly crisscrossed pastry and the burnt crust roses strewn across the edges.

Another buzz.

 _Looking for someone to help me eat this monstrosity_ , Jaskier’s message read.

The message is followed quickly by an address.

(As if Geralt has forgotten the location.)

He grips his cell tight, wondering just what’s going on in Jaskier’s head, what compelled him to contact the older man all of a sudden.

With pie, nonetheless.

It takes a moment for Geralt to realize Ciri’s not here. 

He remembers Jaskier’s blue eyes, made electric by red sclera and grey skies.

It makes sense. More than likely, Geralt’s just the next best thing the boy can get for decent company. To Jaskier, Geralt must be safe - someone who had already caught a glimpse behind the veil, someone that could be trusted not to run or to push.

 _He has no one,_ one voice stated.

 _You’re taking advantage_ , another one argued.

Geralt knows he shouldn’t go. He can conduct all the mental gymnastics he wants, spin this in a way that makes him into some kind person just helping out some poor soul when Ciri couldn’t be there, but as skilled as Geralt is at bullshitting himself, the lie stares at him straight on.

His curiosity burns, and he thinks of rain and tears and - he wants to indulge in blue eyes, tease out a warm smile, maybe a laugh. Help sooth whatever Jaskier might be feeling, because seeing him relaxed and rested _pleased_ him. It was worlds better than seeing the young man bitter and lost.

Tossing away his sad TV dinner, Geralt gives Roach a farewell scratch and grabs his keys.

 _On my way_ , his text reads.

It’s the first back and forth message they’ve actually had with words.

He calms down on the drive over, the night air drifting through his window and the scent of pine slowing his mind. What Jaskier needs right now is a friend, and the idiotic attraction Geralt has for the young man will be pushed aside. Lock away the feelings, throw away the key. For though his emotional constipation and impassive face had annoyed Yen during their relationship, it would serve him well now.

As Geralt exits his car and approaches the door, he can see Jaskier through the windows of his cottage. He putters about the kitchen in soft black jogging pants and a sleeveless shirt. There’s a streak of flour on his hair that Geralt imagines wiping away, before shaking himself out of the impulse.

He clears his throat, knocks briskly. He can hear Jaskier’s gait, steps swift. The door opens to reveal that guileless face. The warm smell of fruit, vanilla, and butter spills into the forest.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Geralt’s smile is tight, and from the way Jaskier fidgets under his stare, it shows. A moment passes between them and Geralt has half a mind to turn around right there are leave because goddamn it, what was he -

“Thanks for coming, Geralt,” Jaskier says, moving to let him in. He says his name sweetly, and Geralt can’t help but be eager to hear it again.

(In for a penny, in for a pound.)

As Geralt toes his shoes off at the door, a brief sweeping glance of the floorspace tells him Jaskier is probably in a better headspace than the last time he visited.

Jaskier seems to read his thoughts as he laughs, a little self-deprecating, “Couldn’t let things fall back into disarray after all your hard work.”

“It was no problem,” Geralt grunts, feeling his face warm up slightly. He wants to brush it off, but knows that his actions that night went above and beyond what the average person would do for an acquaintance. Still, if Jaskier is willing to let him play it off, he’d let him.

A small smile, “Well, if you ever decide to play cleaning crew again, I won’t stop you.”

As he steps through the space, following Jaskier into the kitchen, he couldn’t help but think that the place looked pretty bare, even for a rental. He clears his throat, “Landlord not offer the option?”

“Huh?”

Geralt quirks a brow at the befuddlement on Jaskier’s face.

“Proprietors ‘round here usually include a cleanup service as part of the lease. Another fee to squeeze out of the tenant, but also a way to make sure no one is wreaking havoc on their property.”

Triss, years ago, had inherited a cottage from her grandparents and offered that same service to any tourists holidaying in the area. Before she got involved with Kaer Morhen as their primary veterinarian, she’d lease out the property a month and a time. Now, she stayed over when she didn’t want to make the drive back home in the evenings.

“Oh, I see,” Jaskier fidgets, scratching the back of his neck. For a moment he’s silent, “Didn’t know that was a thing. Deed for the place is mine, so it never came up.”

“Yours?” Geralt can’t help but exclaim, slightly incredulous. The price on these plots of land didn’t come cheap, and most people owning property in the surrounding area usually never wanted to sell. The lure of steady, long-term profit usually won them over.

Geralt himself knows it’ll be decades before he can pay off his own mortgage. Jaskier’s cottage, nice and as close to Ghost Lake as it was, was sure to cost a pretty penny. 

The young man just shrugs in response to Geralt’s silent question, “What can I say? Just a spoiled rich kid that lucked out.”

There’s something about Jaskier’s nonchalance that has Geralt question the truth of the statement, but he decides not to push. It’s none of his business. Asking Jaskier questions wasn’t his purpose here. He’s to make pleasantries, put him at ease, fill in the company that he was missing with Ciri gone.

“It’s a nice place,” Geralt offers.

“It is,” and Jaskier’s smile is genuine. “Could use a few more homey touches though. At least if anyone decides to rob me, they’d get away with absolutely nothing.”

Jaskier pulls out a pie knife from the drawer and starts dishing out thick slices of the dessert. He dollops a large amount of whipped cream onto each piece when he’s done, licking at the spoon before discarding the utensil in the sink. Geralt tracks the unconscious movement, stomach twisting. 

Jaskier frowns for a moment, and Geralt wonders if he’s been caught looking.

“Do you even like peaches?” he asks. “Whipped cream? I shouldn’t have assumed...”

For a moment, Jaskier looks terribly unsure as he bites at his lip. It’s stupidly attractive and Geralt hates himself just a little more.

“Peaches are fine,” Geralt grunts.

“Good,” Jaskier smiles and leads Geralt into the living room, plates and utensils in hand.

They take a seat on the couch. It’s much larger than the one in the Kaer Morhen break room, yet Geralt can nonetheless remember the smell of rain, feel the warmth on his side.

“Hope it’s not too bad,” Jaskier says, watching Geralt take his plate. “Believe it or not, I made an even worse version that got tossed out days ago. Couldn’t exactly serve you that.”

Geralt tries not to think of what that means - if Jaskier had thought of inviting him over when Ciri was still in town.

“Never had much of the inclination to cook before, nevermind bake,” he continues.

“What changed?” Geralt asks, putting his questions to rest.

“Moved out,” Jaskier says, balancing a bite on his fork. “Can’t rely on a personal chef anymore.”

Geralt tries to imagine Jaskier in a big house with a butler and a maid. He can’t exactly fathom it.

“Spoiled rich kid?” he nevertheless questions.

“Spoiled rich kid,” Jaskier repeats, taking a bite of his own creation. “Hey, not bad. Just gotta ignore the burnt bits.”

Geralt follows suit. Despite how the dessert looked in the photo, it actually tasted pretty good. The peaches were tender and still warm, the whipped cream not overly sweet. He scrapes off the worst of the burnt crust, and the flavor of the peach does enough to mask any lingering bitterness.

He would have preferred more filling to offset the pastry, but he doesn’t plan to put a damper on Jaskier’s triumphant little smile.

“It’s good,” Geralt remarks, already taking another forkful.

Jaskier practically beams, and wasn’t that smile something? Geralt tries to memorize that shine of his eyes in the light of the living room.

They make small talk between bites, Jaskier asking after the wolfdogs and the rest of the Kaer Morhen staff. Geralt asks his own questions, getting little anecdotes in response. For a moment, things feel normal, and Geralt can pretend that he isn’t attracted to his niece’s maybe-boyfriend, that what he and Jaskier were doing was completely normal.

And then it’s not.

He’s finishing off the last bite of his pie when Jaskier asks, “How’s Ciri been?”

Geralt barely refrains from frowning.

“Shouldn’t you know?” he asks, because from what he understands they spend their lunches, if not evenings, together.

Jaskier pushes around his dessert, and it’s only now that Geralt realizes he’d stopped eating somewhere halfway through. The young man continues breaking up the poor pastry into a questionable paste, mixing it into mashed up fruit.

“Haven’t seen her in awhile,” Jaskier admits.

Geralt remains silent, confused though he refuses to show it. He waits for Jaskier to continue. The air about him has changed a little, and Geralt wonders if this was the reason that the young man had invited him over.

“She came over for lunch one day,” Jaskier continues, letting go of his fork and finally discarding the plate on the table. “Didn’t think much of her looking through my sketchbooks but, uh… I think she’s upset with me.”

“Is this why you asked me over?” Geralt asks, confusion creeping up on him.

Part of Geralt is genuinely curious, wondering if whatever tiff they’ve had is the reason for Ciri’s odd behavior. As much as he doesn’t want to hear whatever’s going on between them, he resigns himself to helping out.

He’s slightly surprised that he doesn’t feel the overwhelming surge of protectiveness wash over him when it comes to matters of Ciri. Maybe it’s because Jaskier asked him over of his own accord. Maybe it’s his own feelings for Jaskier muddling things up, making him seem more harmless than he truly was. Maybe it’s because he’s come to terms with Ciri handling herself.

Whatever it was, the truth might finally squash whatever one-sided attraction he feels towards Jaskier. If he hurt Ciri in any way, inadvertently or otherwise, Geralt could put his attraction to rest and move the fuck on from this messiness.

Geralt places the empty plate on the coffee table.

“I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t part of it,” Jaskier sighs, “but it’s not the complete truth either.” His eyes flick up to meet Geralt’s own.

“And what’s the complete truth?” Geralt wonders.

Jaskier runs his tongue across his lip. Geralt wonders if his lips taste of peaches or cream or the butter from the pie crust. From the way Jaskier reddens ever-so-slightly, Geralt thinks his momentary distraction was not as covert as he expected.

“Another slice?” Jaskier asks instead, gesturing to his empty plate. Geralt knows he’s stalling.

“Not hungry.”

“Having dessert is never about hunger.”

He hums, not letting Jaskier escape from the conversation.

“Right then,” Jaskier grimaces. 

The young man makes his way to the practically empty bookshelf in the corner of the room.

“You should know something about me.” For a moment, Jaskier hesitates before selecting a sketchbook from the stack and returning to the couch. He pushes it into Geralt’s hands, not quite looking at him. “I’m a greedy person.”

He’s even more red now, and as he places a hand on Geralt’s shoulder it feels like things have taken a turn.

“I want to know if I’m reading this right, Geralt,” Jaskier continues, hand warm through his shirt. ”Thing is, I’m so fucking tired of dancing around the issue, always wondering, and not letting my mind just settle on facts instead of spinning through theory after theory.”

He pulls away, gesturing at Geralt to open the book. “I thought I might as well lay my cards on the table, so to speak.”

Geralt’s curiosity burns even brighter now, because whatever Jaskier was talking about didn’t feel like he was asking Geralt relationship advice concerning Ciri, or even the help of an acquaintance.

When Geralt opens the book to a folded page, he finds himself looking at a familiar drawing. It’s the one Jaskier had sketched of him, back when Geralt had introduced him to Bellegarde. Once again, he’s struck by Jaskier’s skill, his interpretation.

Geralt’s a handsome man according to others, but he never expected to be seen as _beautiful_ through the eyes of another person.

He hesitantly flips the page.

Geralt isn’t prepared to see himself on each new sheet. Different days, judging from his hair and clothes. The sketches of Geralt working were interspersed with other things - flowers, the wolfdogs, strangers. Even Lambert, on occasion. But Geralt was, by far, his most observed subject.

Geralt notes that Ciri wasn’t there, not even once.

He knew what Ciri felt, to some extent, with regards to Jaskier, but the boy himself - what spilled upon these pages spoke of something Geralt never would have fathomed.

On the final filled page, the little sticky note he left for Jaskier that morning is pressed upon the paper.

“Ciri saw this?”

“I think so. She sort of left in a hurry while I was in the kitchen. Got a text after that saying she wanted some space…” Jaskier’s mouth twists unpleasantly. “Took me until the next day to see that book had been pulled out and placed on the coffee table. I - I tucked it away after you stopped replying to my messages. It shouldn’t have been there.”

Geralt touches the page, gently, afraid of smudging the charcoal.

“Thing is, Geralt,” Jaskier says, pulling the book away from him, “self-flagellation isn’t my forte, though I fall into it easily enough. I would have kept sending you pictures, so long as you kept replying.”

Geralt swallows, mouth dry and sticky sweet as he looks into blue eyes. Jaskier really was putting all his cards on the table.

“But when you stopped I thought, ‘Oh, that’s over and done with. Jaskier, you got more than you deserved anyways, you were being greedy’”. Jaskier drums his fingers on the cover of the book.

“And then Ciri saw my sketchbook and I thought, ‘Well, fuck, I guess she knows now!’ Then I thought, hell, if Geralt’s gonna find out about the pining, it might as well come straight from the source.”

He shrugs, “But then I also wondered if meeting up with you again would just make things weirder, if I should just take a gamble on Ciri not saying anything. After losing my mind wondering, I decided to send one last picture - a cosmic coin toss, if you will. If you showed up, you showed up. And if you didn’t… well, that doesn’t matter I guess. Here we are.”

“Hm.”

Geralt feels very much like fish on a hook; all it took was a little bait and he couldn’t help but bite.

“For all I know,” Jaskier continues, voice somehow simultaneously both confident and nervous, “coming over here is just another act of kindness on your part, and I’m completely misinterpreting things. I’d be mortified, of course. In all honesty, I’m mortified now, but that’s fine. I can live with that.”

Jaskier looks away from him, staring at the discarded plates.

“I don’t want her to be angry with you, Geralt. That’s another reason I asked you over. I can stand Ciri being angry with me. I’d welcome it,“ Jaskier sighs, “but I don’t want her to be angry with you. So the first part of why I asked you over is that I’m _greedy_ and I wanted you to know _from me_ about the drawings. It’s self-preservation, in case she decides to tell you about the drawings, or ask you about the note. The second part is that, well, in case she doesn’t, I just wanted you to know anyways. Make sure you’re not playing with an empty hand.”

Jaskier clears his throat. “And well, I guess that’s that. Either way, hope you appreciate me shooting myself in the foot.”

Throughout his confession, Jaskier has turned an endearing shade of pink. It’s a lot to take in as this was no wordless photo. Jaskier’s laid out his feelings for Geralt, allowing another peek behind the veil.

The smell of sugar and fruit rolls off of him.

(Indulge.)

“I should go,” Geralt murmurs, getting up from the couch.

(Fight or flight.)

He pretends he doesn’t see Jaskier’s crestfallen expression from the corner of his eye.

“Right then,” Jaskier sighs. He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry again, for what it’s worth. I never meant to make things awkward between us. Or for you and Ciri, for that matter. Think of this as my blessing and tell her everything that’s happened. I don’t want you to have to cover for me, anymore.”

Geralt doesn’t tell Jaskier that he’s glad he finally has the whole picture, that he now knows why Ciri decided to stay at her friend’s place for a while, the reason for her sullen silence.

Because while maybe she was upset with Jaskier for hiding their correspondence or his feelings, Geralt’s sure of one thing. Ciri’s thinking of something else too: _Geralt’s reciprocation_.

He should’ve known from the way she looked at him over their evening meals.

_You could always use it for a photo._

It wasn’t some off-the-cuff remark. She was spelling it out for him, and he couldn’t read.

“Well, this was certainly an evening,” Jaskier smiles. It’s a hollow thing, and it looks completely out of place on his pretty face. “Even if I turned out to be more trouble than I’m worth, I’m grateful. I really do owe you a lot, Geralt. Don’t think all the pie in the world could repay that.”

Geralt feels like shit as Jaskier takes the blame onto himself. Ciri might’ve been avoiding Jaskier, asked for space, but Geralt’s knows _he_ wasn’t the reason why she decided to skip out on their family dinners, the reason why she decided to stay with Milva for a while.

(He should’ve asked her.)

Jaskier is right there, hurting and Geralt is too much of a coward to admit to his own accountability. Jaskier is hurting and Geralt can’t do anything about it.

(He can.)

Ciri is elsewhere feeling the same.

(It’s his fault.)

“It’s nothing,” Geralt grunts, thinking this is the last of it. He doesn’t deserve Jaskier’s thanks. For all the young man’s proclamations of being greedy, Geralt was the same.

Geralt steps out into the night air. The light from Jaskier’s home casts a long shadow.

“Maybe to you,” Jaskier says so quietly Geralt can barely hear. “Not to me.”

The words, the tone of Jaskier’s voice, halts his escape. Geralt does what he told himself he wouldn’t do, and looks back.

If he had the skill, Geralt wonders how he’d interpret Jaskier’s beauty on paper, wonders if he could transform the anguish in his eyes into something else.

(Would he be as kind in his interpretation as Jaskier had been with him?)

Whatever he’s been feeling, this messy thing, it turns out to be _requited_ and… doesn’t that mean the poisonous ache in his chest is shared too?

Geralt turns his head up, to the darkening sky, where the moon hangs full. Something howls in the distance and he imagines Jaskier sleeping to the haunting sound.

(Leave. Leave. Leave)

Geralt closes his eyes for a moment, remembers the shine of eyes from the light of the living room. After he opens his own, he hesitantly takes a step towards the door Jaskier still holds open.

“Think I’ll take a second slice, after all,” Geralt says.

(What is he doing?)

Silence. Jaskier’s eyes, glinting.

“Still hungry?”

“Dessert's not about hunger,” Geralt repeats.

Jaskier moves to let him inside, ducking his head to hide the relieved smile peeking through. Geralt catches it anyways.

Geralt steps past the threshold, takes a seat on the couch.

He indulges in the smell of peaches and vanilla, lets the filling melt on his tongue and cover the bitterness.

Geralt tries not to think about the mess he’s stepping into, what he’s admitting through actions if not words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for all your support! Seeing kudos/bookmarks/subs and reading comments really motivated me throughout this chapter! Internship has been going great even working remote, but it's been tiring after doing zilch since school went digital. I'm super dedicated to finishing this fic though, and that's thanks to everyone's kind words ♡ As always, welcome any feedback you have for me.
> 
> Hope you're all safe and healthy! Please be kind to yourselves, and I'll see you next time!


	7. Songs Unlived

Geralt doesn’t stay long, but the fact that he stayed at all was… something.

At least that’s what Jaskier tells himself as he puts away the dishes, wraps up the remaining dessert. There’s an energy thrumming through him that he hasn’t felt since he was seven and drank his mom’s double espresso while she wasn’t looking, a restlessness that has him pacing the length of his bedroom back and forth.

_Dessert's not about hunger._

Jaskier can hear Geralt’s gravelly voice in his ear, feel the weight of those amber eyes on him. He refuses to throw himself into his pillow and scream. Slave as he is to his emotions, he’s an adult and he can behave in a dignified manner.

Six seconds pass before his resolve dissolves and he finds himself doing just that.

(Honestly, he’s surprised he got that far.)

Cheek pressed to his pillow, Jaskier realizes that until this day, he’s never been able to relate to the sheer elation of Dandelion’s younger fans attending his concerts - of feeling joy so overwhelming for _a person_ he has to scream. Previous trysts, former infatuations, held little comparison to this moment of acceptance, this quiet reciprocation, of acknowledgement and all that entails.

He took a gamble and it seems to have paid off.  
  
As soon as he’s done with his fit, Jaskier feels the tension loosen from his shoulders, feels himself sink into the down of his mattress.

“I want to write,” Jaskier voices to the empty room.  
  
 _I want to sing_ remains unspoken, but felt.

Thinking of Geralt, his warm presence, has an overwhelming vivacity unfurling from the pit of his stomach and threatening to burst from his throat. His fingers twitch and his face flushes.

While Dandelion has had many muses in the past, Geralt is Jaskier’s first.

That night, the sound of wolfsong plays to the effervescent scratch of pen on paper. Jaskier writes and hums and plucks away at his ukulele, imagining sweet lips and amber eyes. The night’s symphony eventually fades into a torrent of birdsong, light creeping through the cracks of his curtains and flooding the room with warmth.

If he were to look at himself in the mirror, he wouldn’t be surprised if his eyes were red from the strain of a long night.

It feels right though. If his eyes are to be red, far better it be from tiredness than tears.

Jaskier doesn’t know when he drifts off but jumbled tunes play in his dreams, along with the warm press of another’s body against his, the smell of rain. His sleep is brief but restful, and he awakes with paper sticking his cheek.

A message waits on his phone in the morning. An honest to God message.

Not a photo, and the fact has him elated.

Resolving to respond in kind, Jaskier sends a cheery _Good morning!_ before drafting another text. He doesn’t bother to wait for Geralt’s response since he knows he’s allowed such indulgence. Etiquette no longer serves as a shield between them, the pretense of distance crumbled to dust.

A dam has been broken, and it feels like he’s found his words again.

* * *

In the evening, Jaskier calls Priscilla and asks her to arrange to have his things sent over.

He wants to record, do some mixing, see how far he can develop the ditties seeded in the back of his mind. Can he coax them into something beautiful, something worthy to the ear of its intended?

(Something that somehow matches just how precious Jaskier finds these feelings of inspiration? This renewal of faith?)

“This means good things for Dandelion, I hope?” Priscilla asks, her grin practically audible.

Jaskier envisions her lounging in her office as she speaks, long legs crossed, well-worn Chanel heels swinging in excitement as her cellphone presses to her ear.

“Now, don’t get too excited,” Jaskier mutters, walking along the lake’s walkway.

He barely dodges a toddler running past him, her older sister chasing after the runaway girl. There’s surprisingly few people today, but summer is nearing it’s end and Ghost Lake’s popularity has begun to wane in parallel.

“This is still a retreat. Getting hit with inspiration is just a delightful side effect.” 

“How am I supposed to stop myself when I hear something like that?” Priscilla replies. “You know, you could always just come back home. Easier to hop on a plane than shipping a few dozen instruments and microphones to the middle of nowhere.”

“Maybe,” Jaskier acquiesces, “but I find myself more than taken with the inspiration to be found here.”

“Oh?” Suspicion colors her tone.

“What can I say?” He remembers the soft, barely present twist of Geralt’s smile. “The scenery is magnificent, the fresh air invigorating.”

“Somehow I don't think 'fresh air' is their name.”

Priscilla has always been able to call out his bullshit a mile away. 

“Mind yourself, Dandelion. You know how the vultures can get after getting a whiff of bloodshed.”

“You can relax,” Jaskier laughs, barely managing to stave off rolling his eyes. “I’m careful, and this place isn’t like L.A. Everyone's too busy with themselves and their families to notice a nobody celebrity walking about.”

“A nobody celebrity? You've never been one to be humble," she scoffs. "Just remember dear, phones and cameras are everywhere no matter how green your surroundings.”

"Yes, ma’am,” Jaskier replies, rolling his eyes this time. No point in arguing with the Mother Bear.

“I just worry about you, Dandelion. I’ll relax when you’re back home, under my wing.”

“Right, right,” he laughs, half-exasperated and half-fond.

He really doesn’t want to get into this. Not when the setting sun looks so beautiful, not when he had a lovely morning texting back and forth with Geralt before the man had to get back to work.

“Well, if there’s nothing else -”

“There is, actually,” she interrupts. He hears her sigh into the receiver.

“Don’t keep me in suspense, Priscilla. I can hardly stand it.”

From her snort, he can tell she’s not amused by his sass.

“The Countess has been asking about you.”

“ _Virginia?_ ”

He can’t help his surprise. The last person he expects to reach out to him would be Virginia, otherwise known as The Countess de Stael. They were never _really_ friends, despite whatever physical liaisons they’d shared between collaborations and recording sessions.

It was probably why Jaskier never felt abandoned by her when she pulled away. He always understood the score with Virginia. He was never led to expect too much, never trained to have expectations. Her priority was always to herself, and she told him such. Honestly, her blunt attitude was refreshing in their industry of vipers. 

If Jaskier was being truthful, whatever infatuation he once felt for her had been traded for envy. Their careers had once grown in tandem as youngsters in the industry, but once Dandelion got sick he was left at the wayside and left to watch her blossom from his hospital bed.

“Mm. She contacted me through her manager. The girl hasn’t been able to get ahold of you since you changed your number.”

“Has something happened?”

“Haven’t been checking out the gossip columns, huh?” comes the tired reply.

“You know that I haven’t.”

He’s been good about that, not wanting to upset whatever semblance of balance he has in his life. Searching things out seems like inviting trouble, like tipping his weight onto the edge of a crumbling canyon.

“She got in a... scuffle.”

“And you chastise me for my dramatics," he laughs. "I can tell that it was more than a scuffle.”

Priscilla hums, unamused, “She was out with her niece. One of her fans kept trying to get around her bodyguard, ended up shouting some… lewd things at her. Long story short, she lost her temper. Cussed him out and tried to get a slap in. She says she barely caught him on the ear but it was clear enough she hit him in the videos."

"Videos?"

"A bunch of gawkers along the Boulevard caught it on tape.”

Jaskier holds back a wince, “Shit. Is she alright?”

“Physically, yes. Reputation wise, it’s so-so. Most of her fans are sympathetic, though they usually are when you have her following.”

“And legally?” he asks, curiosity overcoming him.

“You can sweep most things under the rug, either through name or money.”

“Bet the press had a field day anyways.”

“Sure did. Paps followed her down to the police station, photos splashed all over the web within the hour. I think she’s more peeved that her niece’s face and name was included in all the articles. She always seemed pretty thick skinned when they came after her.”

“Virginia’s been scrutinized and sexualized since she was fourteen. She has to be,” Jaskier huffs. “It’s good to hear that she wasn’t hurt, at least. I still don’t quite see why she’s asking after me though.”

“Looking for a bit of an escape, from what I understand. Searching for someone that understands what she’s going through. Makes sense that you came to mind, not to mention your… history,” she says, not bothering to mask her disdain.

Priscilla had never liked their dalliance, though she never said anything except to remind them to be discreet. Dandelion was supposed to be all sunshine, after all - the boy-next-door that could fall in love with any girl that loved him in kind. 

But Virginia was more moonlight. A once-in-a-lifetime type of beauty and talent. Seeing them in the tabloids, hand-in-hand, would only sour the parasocial relationship fans had with Dandelion. 

“I see,” Jaskier mutters, somewhat wary of reaching out. After all, he changed his phone number for a reason.

Once, Jaskier made a game of looking at others suspiciously. He found this high-stakes game of poker thrilling - trying to outwit others, weave clever words and build alliances while artfully dodging others. It was a must to thrive in their industry.

But the game grew stale once he got sick.

After his diagnosis got out, the faux sympathy and kindness became unbearable, a reminder of his body turning against him. So many reached out to him with sweet words when their main motive was to check if he was healthy enough to work. Later, they would reach out to check if his vocal chords weren’t the ruined goods the press led them to believe.

Though Jaskier’s sure that a rare few were genuinely concerned for him, it was much easier to tear the entire plant from the root, rather than go through the painstaking process of pruning each rotten leaf.

But Virginia… while The Countess had never visited him in his sickness, he felt her support in other ways. Virginia decried the paparazzi in interviews, ranted about his unfair treatment online, even snuck some clever insults into the lyrics of her songs. 

When Jasier heard her sing, he understood her anger and her public defense wasn’t a performance. He’s ashamed to admit it, but her artistry always had more depth and truth than Dandelion's sugary songs. Her words were more raw, and for Jaskier's plight she always showed solidarity if not investing any emotional comfort.

“Give her my info,” he finds himself saying. “Tell her to give me a ring.”

“Alright then,” Priscilla responds. He can’t tell whether she’s pleased with this development or not. “Take care, Dandelion.” 

Priscilla hangs up before he gets a chance to echo the words. And with that their conversation is complete, a downer ending if there ever was one. 

Jaskier takes a seat on a vacant bench overlooking the lake, trying to gather his thoughts with a lungful of crisp lake air. Unwinding the knotted earphones in his pocket, he settles down to listen to some music, mind dragged down by thoughts of The Countess and his career and Priscilla. He tries and fails not to think too deeply about returning to a lifestyle which invites such intrusiveness and defensiveness and suspicion.

He understands Priscilla’s desire to see him return. She’s trying to preserve his goodwill in the industry and in the eyes of the public, get him back in the game before he has to start from ground zero when it comes to connections and contracts.  
  
Or, maybe, she’s just afraid that after he’s fallen off his horse and he won’t ever ride again.

Curiosity gnaws at him, and he finds himself seeking out one of The Countess’ new songs on his phone. Her voice is richer and beautiful than he remembers, her woven words more complex. The sound is a distinct change from her old style, showcasing her growth and how trends have skewed into something new in the time he’s been away.

It’s a live recording, and Jaskier can practically imagine Virginia on stage, brown-black hair glossy under the stage lights, olive skin glowing with sweat from the exertion of her choreography, lips wet from spitting out song after song and chugging water between sets.

The image, vivid as he envisions it, awakens some part of Jaskier tucked far away on a dusty shelf.

It’s not only the desire to create, to sing. It’s different from the inspiration he felt from Geralt. It’s louder, less pure but nonetheless intoxicating. It’s a craving to be _seen_ , to step into the spotlight and spill his heart on the stage and cast a spell of worship onto an anonymous crowd.

It's power.

He shouldn’t want this ephemeral desire. It’s an artificial love, false and unsustainable, but as he imagines the roar of the crowd Jaskier _aches_ with want.  
  
Artist after artist sing in his ear, and listening to music by the lakeside has never been so heavy an exercise. Some of the voices he recognizes as his contemporaries. Others are veterans that inspired him as a child. And some were complete unknowns to him - personas with young, innocent voices which promised to mature and cement their legacy in the heart of millions.

He had once been one of those voices. Jaskier shouldn’t be surprised that, sooner or later, the algorithm would direct him to a string of Dandelion songs.

Listening to his old music turns into a session in scrutiny more than anything else. The tracklist feels almost fraudulent as he knows it too intimately. Through each beat that’s off to his ear, each melody a touch too sweet, each word that still doesn’t feel _quite right_ , Jaskier can discern the influence of others.

He remembers the advice they gave him to make things cleaner, more palatable, more readable to his audience.

And the thing is, their advice made sense. The songs sounded good. Jaskier can’t deny that, even now.

But each tune is almost ill-fitting to the person he’s become, too polished compared to his jagged edges and the fact that they’re not _entirely_ his twists a part of his stomach.

Listening to his old work feels like putting on an old suit after a growth spurt - it’s pulled too tight against his chest, the fabric too constraining, and completely unaligned to his current aesthetic.

Something about his words, the imagery, the feelings seem...

Unlived.

Putting the track on pause and bundling his earphones, Jaskier closes his eyes and runs through the sound of his most recent composition. He wonders if, years from now, he’ll feel the same way about his words, his feelings.

Would his flash of inspiration from last night soon grow stale? Are his worries normal for an artist or are they just a part of his particular neurosis? Would he -

A loud _boof_ interrupts that train of thought and before Jaskier’s aware of it, he’s being attacked by dog kisses and a faceful of familiar fur. He almost falls off the bench from the weight of the large animal hopping up to say hello.

“Scorpion! Down!”

The sharp voice is familiar, though more panicked than Jaskier’s ever heard, and it does well to stop himself from spiraling.

Once his brain catches up with him, Jaskier lets out a laugh and whatever weight on his chest lifts, the spell of melancholia broken.

 _It’s always chance meetings with them,_ Jaskier muses. _And always at the right time._

“Babysitting today?” Jaskier asks, hands buried in Scorpion’s fluff as he tries (and fails) to dodge the dog’s licks to his chin. 

He looks up to see a frazzled Geralt approaching, Roach trailing behind him with her endearingly bouncy gait. Jaskier gives Scorpion a good scratch behind the ear as he continues trying to clamber up onto his lap, uncaring of the fact that he’s just about as tall as Jaskier standing up.

Geralt relaxes seeing Jaskier, the worry on his face falling away once he realizes Scorpion’s target of affection. He gently pulls Scorpion away by the collar, scolding him and coaxing the malamute to sit down and behave.

“Eskel’s staying late at Kaer Morhen,” Geralt murmurs, once the pup has calmed. “Asked me to take care of Scorpion for the night.”

He clears his throat.

“Sorry about the dog slobber.”

"Actually, I don’t mind this kind of welcome,” Jaskier laughs, wiping it away with the hem of his shirt. Scorpion giving his calf another sniff-lick combination, completely unaware of his own mischief.

“Never expected him to jet off like that. Must’ve caught your scent.”

“Drat,” Jaskier voices, trying to look put out. “Here I was hoping that you sought me out.”

“If I had known you were here, maybe I would’ve,” Geralt voices quietly, not missing a beat.

Jaskier tries not to grin at the light flirtation. Roach waits patiently behind Geralt, and Jaskier thinks she almost looks forlorn as he continues petting Scorpion.

“And what about my favorite girl?” Jaskier asks, shifting his attention towards her. “Is dear Roach not happy to see me?”

He wiggles his fingers in Roach’s direction and her ears pick up ever so slightly, taking his permission to approach. She deigns to give his fingers a few licks and, seemingly pleased, contentedly joins Scorpion at his feet.

Her owner follows suit by taking a seat on the bench. Geralt’s warm at his side and he’s so close and Jaskier wonders how he could possibly smell _good_ despite working under the sun all day. People like him, with their greek god-like bodies and effortless attractiveness are truly unfair.

Jaskier clears his throat, trying to get his thoughts back on track.

“I’m always surprised by how much she likes you,” Geralt murmurs.

“Is it so hard to imagine?” Jaskier replies automatically. He tries to play it cool while paying attention to the dogs. “Everyone likes me.”

Roach eyes drift shut as he scratches under her jaw, seeming to agree. 

From Geralt’s low hum and almost indiscernible smile, Jaskier believes his statement doesn’t extend to the pups alone. When he turns at the sound, Geralt’s eyes are on him and he can feel his plan to keep it cool start to crumble.

Geralt’s eyes glow in the light of the sunset and Jaskier has never seen anything so lovely.

“Hmm?” Geralt asks, confused by his staring.

“You’re rather gorgeous, you know,” Jaskier states, matter-of-fact.

He’s sure Geralt knows of his appreciation for his looks, but he can’t help but voice it out loud. Still, from the way Geralt blinks at him, he’s taken aback by the sudden compliment.

“I - _what?_ ” the man sputters.

Jaskier pulls away from Roach to rest his cheek against his hand, tilting his head ever-so-slightly. He takes in the sharp edge of Geralt’s jaw, the day-old stubble, how his hair seems to absorb the colors sunset reflecting off the lake.

 _Surely someone like this is complimented often?_ he finds himself thinking, artist’s eye memorizing each detail anew.

“You’re gorgeous,” Jaskier repeats after a pause, even more firm than before. “I’d like to paint you sometime, if you’re amenable. Watercolors, I think.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt’s _hmm_ seems more of a grumble, almost pained. While Geralt’s embarrassment is likely evident even to those untrained in Geralt-speak, Jaskier thinks his reaction is quite enchanting. 

He entertains the thought of letting the older man off the hook, but Jaskier _wants_ and if he’s learned anything in show business it’s that no one ever gets anywhere without some pushing.

“Well?” he presses.

“Haven’t you had enough of that already?”

Geralt clearly dodges the question despite the slightest hint of a smile.

“From what I remember,” Geralt continues, “you clearly had enough reference material.”

Jaskier knows he’s referring to the sketchbook he showed him last night. For a second his stomach drops in embarrassment until he recognizes the mirth in Geralt’s expression. And though the lilt in his tone was subtle, Jaskier is delighted to realize Geralt’s _teasing_.

It’s definitely better than allowing what transpired last night to become too heavy, too serious.

“Memory can’t compare to a live model,” Jaskier retorts with a wave of his hand, not allowing himself to be cowed. At Geralt’s silence, he takes it a step further, voice a little lower, “I did tell you I was greedy, didn’t I?”

For but a moment, Geralt’s eyes flick down to his lips before meeting his once more.

“You did,” he says and _oh,_ but isn’t the rasp in his voice lovely?

Geralt clears his throat.

“Guess it’s better than waiting until we bump into each other next.”

“We do seem to do that, don’t we?” Jaskier grins. “I’m always meeting someone here. I’m collecting Kaer Morhen staff members like stamp cards.”

“You come here a lot,” Geralt states more than observes. There’s something about the edge of his words that has Jaskier intrigued.

After a brief pause he seems to soldier on with his train of thought.

“With Ciri,” Geralt finally punctuates, and it seems like Jaskier wasn’t alone in his wandering thoughts.

For once though, the idea of Ciri and Geralt in tandem doesn’t stir up any of Jaskier’s earlier nervousness. Maybe it’s because Geralt has reciprocated his feelings in his own, unassuming way while Jaskier has spelled out his attraction and circled it in red.

Their conversation the night prior, and even their shared banter today, surely indicated that whatever they had between them was growing. It’s a hill they’ll have to hike at some point, but for now Jaskier elects to enjoy the moment.

If Jaskier had found himself visiting the lake on a different day, would he have met Geralt instead of Ciri first? Bumped into him walking Roach? Jaskier thinks it would have happened eventually, but Mama Penkratz always told him he was a romantic at heart.

“It’s my favorite spot,” he says, gesturing towards the sunset and glistening waters. “Seems to be hers as well.”

“Hm.” Geralt’s mouth presses into a line. Jaskier is coming to recognize this little tick as a sign to wait, the older man’s words trapped behind sharp teeth. It’s soon rewarded.

“I can help you find other places,” he eventually murmurs. “There are a lot of spots ‘round these parts people don’t know about. Other spots you could make your favorite.”

Geralt isn’t looking him in the eye anymore, but Jaskier can read his embarrassment and what might be (if he’s inferring this correctly) the slightest hint of childish jealousy. The offer, along with the thought, breaks Jaskier out into a bright smile.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would say this was a scheme to spend some more time with me.”

“And having me model isn’t?” Geralt challenges, gruff.

“Of course not!” Jaskier protests in mock-outrage, arms spreading wide in exaggeration. “How could you accuse me of such a thing? I’m but a humble artist trying to sharpen my skills.”

“Ah, guess I should be apologizing for the false accusation.”

Geralt’s eyes dance with mirth, and Jaskier is spurred to continue his antics.

“I’ll be waiting for it,” Jaskier sighs. “I’m purely interested in honing my craft, you know. Definitely not interested in anything else. Not even getting dinner after.”

Geralt hums, lip twitching in bemusement despite his stoic facade.

“So it’s a no for dinner? Shame.”

“Well, a bit of supplication might change my mind,” Jaskier says, leaning his side towards Geralt’s and playing nonchalant.

“A hard bargain.”

“'Please' can be such a heavy word.”

Geralt is silent, turning his attention to Scorpion who’s looking somewhat put out at the lack of attention. When the man breaks eye contact, Jaskier is worried that he’s pushed too far in his joking.

He hurriedly opens his mouth to play off the conversation, but Geralt cuts him off before he gets a word in.

“Then there's only one way around it." There’s a smile in the man's voice, even if Jaskier can’t see it. "Will you _please_ go to dinner with me, Jaskier?”

“You only need to say when, darling,” he responds cheerfully, completely enchanted by how the tips of Geralt’s ears turn red at the endearment.

When Geralt turns back to him with a smile, Jaskier pretends to be blissfully unaware of his own ears coloring in kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I'm sorry this took so long, everyone. I was having a hard time managing my mental health with the General World Events of 2020, but I'm back to writing after taking a much needed break. Thank you to everyone that left any sort of feedback on the previous chapter - I loved reading your comments especially, and they definitely helped motivate me to press on. I hope you're all doing okay and staying safe. As always, love any and all feedback! Until next time, please take care!


	8. Walls Up, Walls Down

It’s Eskel that notices his change in mood first.

“You look happy lately,” he remarks. “Lighter.”

Eskel plays at casual, but Geralt feels like he’s under a spotlight from the way his brother stares.

 _You’re an idiot_ , Geralt thinks.

He’d lowered his guard, too preoccupied by his back and forth texts with Jaskier to put up an air of nonchalance around his brother. Distracted, Eskel had taken their lunch break as an opportunity to strike.

Eskel’s only a few months older than Geralt, but he’d been Vesemir’s first foster kid. Every other boy that came through Kaer Morhen afterwards was a baby in his eyes. Eldest sibling was a role he took on with gusto, always prodding the younger boys to disclose whatever they were hiding from either him or Vesemir.

Though they’re no longer lost teenagers prone to angst and self-destruction, Eskel still clings to the habit.

“It’s a good look, Geralt,” Eskel continues, trying to get him to open up through nonchalance. An Eskel tactic, through and through. “Just wondering about what spurs such good humor.“

Geralt is sure he has a theory ready and he’s playing at politeness before throwing it out there.

Reluctantly putting his text conversation with Jaskier on pause, Geralt horks down his lunch in an attempt to escape Eskel’s observant stare as quickly as possible. 

“Hmm,” he counters, mouth preoccupied.

He hopes that the sound is obvious enough as a dismissal, but Eskel only looks unamused. It’s a well-worn look that forever reminds Geralt of when they were sixteen and his newfound brother discovered his stash of cigarettes hidden in the tool shed.

Despite the many years between that incident and the present day, Eskel is still the same bloodhound. As soon as he catches wind of a secret, Eskel becomes dead set on digging it up. For all that his brother seems calm and restrained, he was the most tenacious of them all.

“What’s going on, Geralt? Roach learn a new trick? Finish up a statue? Get a discount at the diner?” Eskel crumples up his empty granola wrapper and, without rising from his seat, effortlessly tosses it into the garbage can across the room. “Seeing someone, perhaps?”

And there it is.

Coming to the right conclusion was probably child’s play.

Geralt shrugs and stuffs his mouth with more pasta, trying to remain impassive as he selects an appropriate half-truth.

It’s no use. From the glint in Eskel’s eye, he has rightfully judged Geralt’s reaction as an admission of guilt.

“Well, good for you,” Eskel smiles, satisfied that he’s gotten his confirmation despite the complete one sidedness of this entire exchange. “If it gets serious, bring them around sometime, yeah? It’s been years since Shani.”

With a toothy grin, Eskel tosses away the rest of his garbage and leaves Geralt to the silence of the break room. While the man leaves with a skip in his step, Geralt has a hard time swallowing his food.

Eskel’s probably on his way to blab about Geralt’s love life to both Lambert and Vesemir. By the end of his shift, they’d know.

_Shit._

Geralt knows he was to talk to Ciri, of course. The plan was to apologize once she’s home, explain his relationship to Jaskier, and finally ask whether she would be comfortable with them together.

Geralt may be a grown man, but Ciri is _family._ Ever since he began taking care of her, he’s always put her needs before his own. If he and Jaskier made her uncomfortable, he’d cut ties no matter how significant their interactions.

He and Jaskier have, so far, skirted around the issue. Ciri seems to hover just on the edges of their conversations, an unspoken agreement to let things lay for the time being, happy enough to bask in limbo.

But in avoiding thinking of Ciri, Geralt has disregarded a slew of other people - Eskel, Lambert, _Vesemir_.

Through Eskel’s prying, Geralt realizes that if he and Jaskier are gonna carry on for anything longer than the summer, he’ll have to let his family know. Triss, Marilka, and Dara will find out too, he realizes.

Ghost Lake is a small place and Kaer Morhen even smaller. The entire staff knew of Ciri’s infatuation with Jaskier, and everyone’s seen the blue-eyed boy around the compound. Teasing Ciri about Jaskier had become a pastime.

They were _rooting_ for her, underneath all the teasing.

And here Geralt was, at least a decade Jaskier’s senior, pulling a bait-and-switch.

“Fuck.”

The thought of his friends and family judging their relationship, questioning their character alongside the situation, has Geralt’s stomach churning.

It’s so much, almost too much, for someone that he hasn’t even kissed yet.

And yet.

Geralt already knows if he takes another step towards Jaskier, he’ll end up falling through the deep end. He wouldn’t be satisfied with just a kiss and some wandering hands, or a few tumbles in bed.

It’s a feeling he half-recognizes, but is hesitant to confront: a foreshadowing of love, the premonition of falling. Admittedly different, but distinct.

Geralt’s always done things out of order. His modus operandi has always been sex, and then acquaintanceship, and then romance if he somehow isn’t scared by the intimacy it beseeches.

It’s been that way with Yennefer, Regis, and Shani. But it always ended the same way too. 

Geralt was always too gruff, too impatient with the other person to make the romance sustainable.

Jaskier, in this respect, was an outlier.  
  
Admittedly, Geralt's grown since his past partnerships. Once, over a few bottles of wine, Yennefer remarked that if they had met later in life they might’ve worked out. He wonders about this, because while he's changed it takes two. And Jaskier is so, so different from his previous partners.

Mystery, vulnerability - Geralt recognizes that lost look in Jaskier’s eyes when he slips into quiet contemplation. Maybe it's that melancholy that allows him to be a little softer. Of course, there’s more to it than just responding to Jaskier's. It’s about how bright his smile can be on his good days, how earnestly he puts himself on the line when it comes to Geralt. How simple enjoyment can be when it’s just the two of them.

Geralt _aches_ in a way that’s inexplicable, drawn into Jaskier’s orbit for reasons he can’t discern. At this point, was there even a point in trying?

He thought he has until Ciri coming home to decide just how much he wants Jaskier. As his phone buzzes with another text from the man, Geralt realizes he already has his answer. Maybe it was decided when Geralt heard Jaskier’s shaking voice as he left the cottage, or when he first replied to Jaskier with a photo in an attempt to provide comfort.

God, he named one of their surrenders _Buttercup_ after seeing Jaskier drowned in the rain and if that didn't signify how far gone he is...

It’s almost pathetic how much Geralt aches for whatever Jaskier will give him.

Geralt decides then, that if he can have Jaskier without irreparably hurting Ciri, he'll just have to suck up and shoulder whatever judgement comes after.

It feels like it will be worth it.

* * *

Lambert’s wolf whistle is still annoying though.

Geralt may have had years to master the art of ignoring his younger brother’s jokes, but Lambert’s obnoxious behavior still manages to raise his blood pressure a tick.

Unlike Eskel, Lambert is usually too preoccupied with his own romantic drama to care about Geralt’s (love) life, or lack thereof. Lambert really only comes out of the woodwork when he spots a chance to mess with him, and he seems particularly set on riling him up today. Secretly, Geralt assumes this mood is a result of Lambert's own romantic issues - something was going on with him and Keira (and Aiden, though that’s always left unsaid), but Geralt doesn’t bother inquiring. It’s been years of the same circular bullshit, it's doubtful Lambert will pull his head out of his ass anytime soon.

Geralt whistles for Roach, keen on leaving the facility in record time. Roach, seeming to sense his urgency, leaves the comfort of her dog bed faster than usual.

“Look at you, all cleaned up,” Lambert remarks. “Running off to meet your mystery date?” 

He ignores Lambert’s smarmy expression. It’s just teasing, but Geralt's earlier realizations make the jabs all the more uncomfortable.

He can't bring himself to be mad at Lambert. He’s not angry at Eskel for spilling the beans either. One look at him, hair damp from using the staff showering room and clothes changed into something fresher and more presentable would’ve tipped Lambert off if Eskel hadn’t.

Besides, neither of them have any insight into Geralt’s moral dilemmas. They were his brothers, and more than likely just happy he was dating again.

Geralt doesn’t think his life is boring, but it could be considered stagnant to most.

(It really has been awhile since Shani.)

Still, he flips Lambert the bird as he exits the gift shop.

Roach scuttles from the lobby, making her way to his truck as soon as the door is open. She seems just as excited to see Jaskier as he is, but it’s sobering that Geralt’s only guaranteed supporter in this relationship is his dog.

* * *

When he eventually pulls up to the cottage, Geralt can see Jaskier pacing his living room back and forth through the window. He’s so animated, cell pressed to his ear and free arm gesticulating widely.

Geralt doesn’t want to interrupt, but Roach begins to get antsy from her place beside him, letting out an uncharacteristic whine once she catches sight of Jaskier.

“Not like you to be so sweet on someone.”

He gives her a small scratch, chuckling at her judgemental huff.

“Yeah, I guess it’s not like me either.”

Geralt makes his way up the walkway, and knocks on the door.

Jaskier is still on the phone as he greets him, shooting Geralt an apologetic smile as he waves him inside. Geralt hovers in the foyer, feeling awkward as he half-listens to Jaskier’s conversation.

“Hey, I’ll call you back, okay? Yes. Yes, dear. Well, I’d be a fool to think I could stop you, ball of fire that you are.” Jaskier laughs suddenly, loud and unbidden. “You’re awful,” he huffs, catching his breath and obviously fond. “Okay, talk to you later, doll.”

Dear.

 _Doll_.

It rankles Geralt to know that Jaskier gives out his pet names freely, when Jaskier calling him _darling_ the other night felt weighty, but he pushes that feeling to the side telling himself he doesn’t have claim to the jealousy just yet.

In time.

Fates (and Ciri) permitting.

“Sorry about that.” Jaskier sheepishly smiles, putting his phone away. “Once you get Virginia going, you can’t get her to stop.”

“Virginia?”

The young man pauses, looking at Geralt with an unreadable expression.

Jaskier's moods seem to flit back and forth, walls building back up just as fast as they crumble. The walls are back up, after he asks about this Virginia. Jaskier, from what Geralt has been able to glean, is stringent about keeping personal details to himself.

When he talks about people it’s always in titles - my old classmate, my cousin, my neighbor. Never names. _Priscilla_ he hears now and again, but that’s still rare. The dropped detail isn’t insignificant in Geralt’s mind, and he stores away the name as a consequence. 

Jaskier smiles at him less jubilantly than before, but Geralt can’t bring himself to be regretful.

He wants to know what brings Jaskier down as much as he wants to know what brings him up; Geralt understands that Jaskier doesn’t want to be shoved, but he thinks he should be able to push at least a little. Pick away at the edges to figure out what’s underneath.

Take a page from Eskel’s book.

“She’s… an acquaintance? Work partner. Friend, I suppose,” Jaskier finally offers at Geralt’s insistent silence.

“Just that?” Geralt asks, thinking of Jaskier’s fondness at the end of the call.

Jaskier hesitates, and it twists something in Geralt’s stomach because he’s gotten the gist of it. They were definitely a _something_. Maybe not now, but back then. And he still liked her enough to use endearments.

“Once upon a time, I would’ve said she was something else.”

“Ah.”

He isn’t sure what more there is to say.

“Something else doesn’t always mean something more, Geralt.”

“That’s vague as hell,” he ends up blurting.

Jaskier laughs at the observation.

“I suppose it is. Call us exes, then. Less crude than how she'd choose to describe it.”

"Hmm."

Despite Jaskier not responding entirely, maybe the fact that he was talking, sharing at all, was enough.

“Haven’t heard from her in a long time," he continues. "At the end of it, she really was just a work partner. We’d collaborate, now and again, but nothing more than that.”

“Didn’t realize artists would collaborate."

“Huh?”

“I always thought fine art was a solitary career. Solo exhibitions. Triss, one of the vets at Kaer Morhen, dragged me to a friend’s show once.”

“Oh. Um, right.”

Geralt hesitates to continue the conversation, unsure if he’d be pushing Jaskier too much. His companion just looks at him patiently, and Geralt opts to try.

“You don’t mind then?” Geralt asks, more concerned about _Jaskier_ than a conjured up potential love rival from his end.

“What do you mean, Geralt?

“Last time you got a call from someone about - work, or a show,” he hums, trying to find the words, “it didn’t seem to make you happy.”

Jaskier’s shoulders stiffen, though he thankfully doesn’t wilt away. A shadow of melancholy in his expression nevertheless betrays his emotions.

“No, I suppose it didn’t,” Jaskier admits. He seems to look past Geralt as he continues his train of thought. “Talking with Virginia is different from talking with Cyprian though. I’m not quite sure how to explain it. Guess she’s one of the few people from that circle I don’t mind hearing from.”

Geralt wants to help. He was, after all, that one that posed the question in the first place.

“When you end up running,” Geralt murmurs, thinking of Jaskier’s question posed so long ago, “you tend to forget.”

He clears his throat after seeing Jaskier's quizzical expression.

“Sometimes there are good things you end up abandoning in your haste to leave.”

Geralt doesn’t have the entire picture. He knows this. Still, with what little clues he’s managed to collect, he wants to help Jaskier stop running. Help bring down another wall.

“Guess so,” Jaskier smiles tightly. “I think I’m still trying to sort out the good from the bad.”

Another step.

“I’m here if you ever need a second pair of eyes.”

“I’m glad.”

With a deep breath, Jaskier brushes past Geralt to toe on his shoes.

“Well, enough of all that.”

Suddenly, like a switch has been flipped, the young man is back to being bouncy, spine straight and cheerful attitude back in place. 

“I’m too hungry to think about sad things,” Jaskier announces. “Let’s get going.”

* * *

Geralt lets Jaskier take the reins then, content for him to shift the mood to something more fitting for a night out. He leads Geralt outside, locking the cottage door behind them.

“So, where are we off to?”

“Your pick,” Geralt grunts. “Just need to stop by my place for a second.”

“You came here from work?”

“Didn’t want to make you wait.”

“Lucky me,” Jaskier chirps, from behind him. “You look nice, by the way. _Very_ nice.”

Geralt ignores how he’s sure Jaskier’s eyes have drifted below the beltline while they walk to the truck.

“As nice as I can look coming from work,” he gruffly replies, hiding his embarrassment from Jaskier’s flirtations.

“Bah! As if you don’t look nice when you’re at work either.”

Geralt’s saved from any further compliments once they’re in the car, Jaskier shifting his concentration to greet Roach.

“You should’ve told me Roach was here! I have a box of treats in my kitchen just for her.”

“She doesn’t need any more spoiling, Jaskier.”

“Nonsense. She deserves the best.”

“My place is on the way to the Summer Village,” he replies, ignoring the kissy faces Jaskier is giving to his dog. “We’ll drop Roach off along the way. You can think about what you want to eat on the drive.”

“First of all, innuendo,” Jaskier teases. Geralt schools himself to remain impassive once his brain catches up to him. “Second, as the person who asked me to dinner, you should have already had this decided. Thirdly - nonsense! Roach is coming with us! How could we leave her all by her lonesome while we dine without her?”

Geralt snorts as he begins to drive away from the cottage.

“Places with a patio then. Hope you don’t mind mosquitoes.”

“It’s worth it for her company,” he punctuates the sentiment with a boop to Roach’s nose.

Geralt doesn’t mind in either case, truth be told. Jaskier’s obvious fondness for any and all four-legged creatures he comes across is nothing but endearing. Part of him is glad that Roach has taken such a shine to the Jaskier. He still remembers the way she growled at Regis when they were introduced. 

Honestly, Geralt should have taken that as the first indicator that their relationship would fizzle out in record time. 

“Hear that Roach?” Geralt hums, feeling her tail hit his thigh as it wagged. “You get to third-wheel on our date.”

Jaskier laughs and Geralt observes that pretty blush scattering across his cheeks. Geralt supposes this is the first time he’s called this dinner a date. With how flushed he’s made Jaskier, he resolves to try and inspire that same reaction once more.

“Geralt, you flatter yourself,” Jaskier jokes, “if anything, you’re the third wheel on this outing. Isn’t that right, Roach?”

Roach sets her eyes on Jaskier before promptly sneezing in his face.

“Agh, nasty! _Roach_!”

Geralt grins then, taking in Jaskier’s aghast expression. He grabs the wet wipes from their place in the glove compartment, eyes still on the road, before handing them to his companion.

“Third-wheeling with Roach? Just how am I to compete with that?”

* * *

They end up in a little steak house named Posada, chosen more for the patio which opened up to the lake than for the food itself. Roach rested contentedly at their feet, keeping their ankles warm despite the dropping temperature.

There were, blessedly, no mosquitos and Geralt counts that as a win for a first date.

Geralt would have brought Jaskier to the townsite east of Ghost Lake, unfortunately too out of the way for an after-work dinner. Geralt thinks he can make the visit a reality sooner rather than later though. He promised Jaskier to show him new favorite places, after all, and the chateau-slash-hotel would be a good next step. 

The hotel overlooked the valley of Mount Rundle, commercial hot springs within the compound built to take advantage of the spring water from the mountains. The lower level of the hotel was kept open to the public as a tourist attraction due to its architecture and history, and there were a fair number of lovely cafés and restaurants in the area.

What he really wanted to show Jaskier, though, was the dining hall. Management employed a harpist to entertain the guests. Geralt knows next to nothing about music, but he thinks the entertainment would have pleased Jaskier with how close he keeps his ukulele.

For now, they’d have to make do with tourist-price inflated entrées along with Posada’s endless bread. 

“What are you thinking about?”

“Where to bring you next,” he answers sincerely.

Jaskier hums, swiping another roll.

“That’s sweet. But I’m happy enough to be with you here and now, you know?”

Geralt takes a sip of water, allowing himself the time to gather his thoughts.

“Season’s ending,” he observes, looking out at the lake and feeling how cold the breeze has become. If one was to look closely, they’d see the slightest yellowing in the leaves.

“Guess summer doesn’t last forever around here, huh?”

Jaskier seems to catch himself after the remark, words stolen from his throat unthinkingly. He hesitates to elaborate, but Geralt bumps their knees together in silent encouragement.

“I’m from Los Angeles,” Jaskier finally concedes under the silence. “Gets cooler, but the summer’s practically eternal compared to the shift in seasons you get over here. I’ve lived there so long, moving here and experiencing a change of weather is a novelty.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes. Ups and downs. Crowds, traffic, pollution. Entertainment, innovation, style. Coming here was meant to be a brief reprieve, Geralt. I don’t think anyone imagined I’d stay for so long.”

It worries Geralt, a little. For all his fretting about how Jaskier would slot into his life, he hasn’t thought too much about the possibility of Jaskier disentangling himself. The cottage was in his name, but that doesn’t make a home. He (or his family) could rent it out like so many proprietors in the area. Geralt still doesn't understand how a twenty-something-year-old even has property to possibly loan out.

“How old are you, Jaskier?” he wonders out loud.

Jaskier seems bemused.

“Twenty-two,” he replies.

Geralt takes another sip of water. He knew Jaskier was _young_ , but actually hearing it out loud and learning the number was different.

Most people Geralt knows have already put down roots. Family, careers, and age demanded some sort of permanence and stability. But both Jaskier and Ciri were in that period of their life where impermanence was the norm.

“What about you, Geralt? Can't ask for a gentleman's age with reciprocating.”

“Thirty-five.”

Until today, Geralt never imagined thirty-five would feel so old. At least Jaskier doesn’t seem put off. In fact, he looks gleeful as he gains this tidbit of information.

“Seems I fall short of the formula.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know. The formula about age gaps and respectability. Half your age plus seven? I’m around two years short. Three, if we’re rounding up.”

Geralt lets out a groan, hand pushing away the stray locks of hair that have escaped from his topknot.

“That supposed to make me feel better?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“These things don’t come down to a science, Geralt. I don’t mind a few years between us. Maybe I even like it,” he winks.

“If you’re sure.”

Jaskier knocks their knees together and smiles at him, eyes more blue than the surrounding lake.

“You think too much,” Jaskier observes in the ensuing silence.

“You’re one to talk.”

“Guilty. So, care to share with the class what's going through that pretty head of yours?”

This time, it’s Geralt that hesitates. He breathes in deep, letting the cold air drifting from the lake steel himself.

“How long do you plan on staying?”

 _‘How long do I get to keep you?’_ remained unspoken.

Jaskier lives in L.A. Jaskier is _young_. And there’s more to it beyond that.

Geralt doesn’t know what Jaskier wants from his life. If he’s planning to go to school, or travel, or if even Jaskier himself knows. Geralt wouldn’t expect it out of himself at that age. If there’s to be a timer on this, he’d like to know the numbers.

“I’d like to see the leaves change,” is Jaskier’s answer.

“And?” Geralt prods, because it’s obvious he wants to say something more.

Hesitation. Eyes looking past Geralt. Focused and unfocused. Walls up, walls down.

Under the table, Jaskier accidentally jostles Roach from the way his leg shifts.

“I think Bellegarde would look lovely in the snow,” Jaskier elects to say. “I’d like to paint that.”

Well.

It’s not a promise for forever. Obviously. And Geralt doesn't like thinking of the inevitable parting, but if it’s like that he’ll just have to cherish the moments he's offered.

“I grew up skating on the lake,” Geralt says, memorizing the way Jaskier’s eyes light up as he talks about his childhood. “On sunny days, the frozen surface of the lake looks like a slate of aquamarine. Kaer Morhen is beautiful in the winter. You'll have plenty to paint.”

At Jaskier’s insistence, he ends up mumbling his way through stories of his adolescence, teasing out Jaskier’s laughter as he discloses how he and his brothers would sneak away from Kaer Morhen, chores forgotten in favor of running through the surrounding wonderland.

Snowball fights, tussles in the snow, racing across the stretch of ice. Winter in Kaer Morhen was always magical. He imagines spending it with Jaskier.

“I haven’t been skating before. Teach me?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt takes in Jaskier’s wind chafed cheeks and the dimples that appear with each wide smile. He may not have this forever, but it’s enough for now.

“Of course.”

He'll take what he can get.

* * *

By dessert, the temperature has dropped significantly. Jaskier uses it as an excuse to hold Geralt’s hand across the table and tangle their legs together, rather than leave.

The contact warms him from inside out. Geralt would’ve been content to continue sitting there, if not for the audience that they’ve garnered.

A group of recently seated girls glance at their table, hastily ducking their heads when Geralt returns the stare. He first assumed that they were looking at Roach, but from what he can see they're target of observation is Jaskier.

Geralt strains his ears trying to catch what they’re frantically whispering among themselves, but fails to garner the reason for their interest. He supposes they might be enamored of Jaskier, probably getting a good look at his face on their way in. He couldn't blame them for that. Jaskier was striking in that way.

“Something wrong?”  
  
Jaskier is mostly turned away from the group, half-tucked away behind one of the flowering pots on the terrace and, by all accounts, unaware of their odd behavior.

“Seems we have a crowd,” Geralt grumbles, briefly locking eyes with one of the girls before she turns away. “Either they’re very interested in what we’re having for dessert, or they’ve taken a fancy with the back of your head.”

Geralt waits for Jaskier’s laughter since he’s been laughing loudly all evening, but instead finds him pale and noticeably tense.

“Jaskier?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Jaskier laughs, waving off his worry after a beat. He pulls his hand out of Geralt’s own and resolutely doesn’t turn around. “Not to cut the night short, but could we get going? It’s pretty cold.”

Unconvinced, Geralt tries to connect the dots, tries to suss out a reason for Jaskier’s sudden panic at being stared at. He comes up blank. Taking in how lost Jaskier looks, Geralt decides this is a conversation meant for elsewhere.

“Geralt?”

Geralt looks at him with a soft expression.

“Let’s go, then.”

He ends up glowering at the girls, feeling slightly embarrassed that he’s directing his annoyance at kids no older than Ciri. His expression finally seems to put them off, silencing themselves and opting to stare at their food.

Body running on automatic, he reaches into his pocket and hands his keys over to Jaskier. 

“Can you start up the truck while I take care of the bill?”

Jaskier opens his mouth to protest, but seems to think better of it as a half-smile forms on his face. He takes Geralt’s chance for escape in stride.

“Thanks,” he whispers, grabbing the keys. The smile he offers Geralt is substantially dim and it makes Geralt’s chest ache. “I’ll get the tab next time.”

He wants to be happy about Jaskier’s promise for a next time, but his mood has soured markedly with the turn of events. He tries not to frown as Jaskier walks away, pace brisk and face resolutely turned away from the other customers.

It seems the walls have come back up.

As Geralt flags down the waitress to pay for the meal, the babbling from the other table begins anew.

Over the wind, he can only catch a few words.

_‘Can’t be-’_

_‘It’s impossible-!_ ’

_‘As if dandelion-’_

Geralt tunes their nonsensical chatter out, annoyed at them for spoiling the evening.

He would've taken mosquitoes over this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Once more, thank you to everyone that's continuing to support this fic. Reading the comments from the previous chapter warms my heart and always motivates me to continue writing. Now that I'm working, I'm not updating as frequently but I still love playing with the characters in this universe and can't let this story go. Writing has been a nice escape in these awful times, and I hope you're all staying safe and finding joy in whatever you can. As always, love any and all feedback, and I hope you guys are being kind to yourselves :)


	9. Deep Breaths

The first time Dandelion was to perform in front of a crowd (a _real_ crowd, a _packed stadium_ crowd, a _not-his-mother’s-book-club_ crowd) his heart beat so fast he thought he was having a heart attack.

He was only fifteen then, teenage dreams in full throttle accompanied by a freshly cracked voice and hormonal acne hidden under layers of makeup. Each heartbeat created a thump in his chest so forceful he swore his stylist could feel it as she styled his bleached out curls.

No amount of pacing, or meditation, or blubbering to Priscilla had managed to still his torrent of panic. It was only when he stepped out onto the stage, spotlight blinding and the crowd’s indistinct voices coming together to cheer his name, that he felt his heartbeat begin to even out.

There was safety in knowing that he was the object of their adoration. These people invested time, money, _love_ into him.

If he was worth those, what did he have to fear?

Later, he’ll learn that this love has a cost.

When he’s no longer fifteen and naive, he’ll learn that being adored means being scrutinized, assessed.

People invest time and money, yes, but they’ll also feel entitled to a return. A good show, either on stage or in the press.

Now, Jaskier can hear his heartbeat, blood rushing in his ears. The force of it seems to echo through his chest, all the more powerful in the quiet of Geralt’s truck.

His fingers are numb but he can’t bring himself to turn on the heat. The keys are still clutched in his trembling hands, metal teeth cutting into the skin of his palm; the dull pain is a lifeline.

As if to calm some raging animal, Jaskier presses them to his chest, trying to keep himself anchored in the present. 

Deep breaths.

In and out.

In and out.

_Phones and cameras are everywhere no matter how green your surroundings._

Okay, he’d gotten cocky - bared his belly like a dog in comfort, relishing in the lake’s anonymity. It seems that telling himself the difference in his hair color and clothing was simply a pretty little lie.

Maybe with outdoorsy folk like Geralt and Ciri he could get away with it but they were outliers. For people that went on the internet for more than just checking their email? Who was Jaskier kidding? He’s been flying on luck ever since he moved out here.

Geralt didn’t mention the girls had phones or were taking pictures of them - just that they were staring. But even the feel of their eyes on him as he left the restaurant prickled in a way that was all too familiar. The trees and surrounding lake might as well have been concrete roads and sky high buildings.

Jaskier leans his temple against the window, glass cool on his fevered skin, and closes his eyes.

Deep breaths. 

In and out.

He wonders if he can piece together some semblance of calm for Geralt, even thinks about pretending to sleep so he can avoid having to explain _why_ he was suddenly acting so weird on their date.

He ends up startling from these half-formed thoughts as Geralt opens the truck door. A chill creeps into the vehicle as he takes a seat, and Roach hops up onto Jaskier’s lap and sniffs his chin in greeting.

Jaskier tries not to laugh at the feel of her wet nose brushing against him but fails.

 _So much for playing dead_ , he thinks, opening his eyes and scratching behind Roach’s torn ear. He avoids looking at Geralt as he waits for the questions to begin.

“I need to drop off Roach,” Geralt says instead, reaching over to gently pry the keys away from him.

Their hands brush together.

Geralt runs hot, Jaskier notes absentmindedly. It was comforting over dessert and the cold night air, but now the warmth of his skin is scalding.

If Geralt notices how Jaskier flinches at their contact, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he wordlessly turns on the ignition and cranks up the heater.

“We can go somewhere else, if you’re up to it. But if you’re tired, I can always take you home.”

Jaskier continues to pet Roach, taking some comfort in the steady rise and fall of her back. He turns Geralt’s words in his head. It’s another out, another chance to let things lie, another kindness.

Just like the note with two phone numbers, he’s giving Jaskier a choice.

Geralt’s telling him, in not many words, that Jaskier doesn’t owe him an explanation. But while Jaskier might not _owe_ Geralt an explanation, he _wants_ to give him one. Wants to plant his metaphorical feet in the ground and stop letting things get to him.

Jaskier _wants_ to stop lying to the one person he can trust not to ask questions in the first place.

There are so few of those in his life, so few people that let him set his own pace.

“Can we go to yours?” he asks.

“‘Course,” Geralt answers, ever the pleaser.

Jaskier reaches over, takes Geralt’s warm, work-roughened hand in his own and clutches tight. 

There are no metal teeth cutting into his skin, but it stops him from trembling.

* * *

Jaskier likes Geralt’s house. It’s homey. Lived in. A stark contrast to his cottage.

It’s the kind of house he sees in sitcoms about middle class folks from the early 2000s, where things are a little messy but a testament to how full the lives of the characters are.

There’s unopened mail on the dining table and dog hair on the couch. A jacket strewn on the back of a chair and coffee-stained cups on the countertop. In the living room, there stands a series of overstuffed bookshelves and wood carvings on the fireplace mantel.

(He briefly imagines what it would be like to cuddle in front of the fireplace over the winter. He’s never had the opportunity.)

As soon as the door opens, Roach abandons them in favour of grabbing a ragged chew toy from under the coffee table.

Faced with these little details, Jaskier feels a little lonely and somewhat homesick for his home in L.A.

He has a treasure trove of prized possessions accumulated over the years: framed photos, signed instruments, awards. Little knick-knacks and souvenirs procured from his tours and places he’s visited for interviews and shoots. They were reminders that he lived a life once (despite doubling as a reminder that he did it, for the most part, alone).

“Coffee?”

“Sure.”

“Black?”

“The more bitter, the better,” he quips.

Geralt guides him to the living room, hand at the small of his back, and Jaskier tries not to feel like he’s an outlier amongst all this comfort.

He’s suddenly aware of how it’s only the two of them in _Geralt’s_ place, Ciri still visiting her friend.

God, how awkward that would it have been if that wasn’t the case?

 _One worry at a time_ , he reminds himself.

Only the sound of Roach’s panting and the chug of the coffee machine break the silence. A little shelf of CDs by the sound system catches his eye and he wanders over to it, curiosity about Geralt’s musical tastes overtaking his newfound nervousness.

It’s mostly a collection of classic rock, jazz, R&B. A surprising amount of collections featuring vocalists from the 50s and 60s. There’s a few other obscure, contemporary groups mixed in too. A series of hauntingly familiar titles greet him and Jaskier frowns on reflex.

“Valdo Marx,” Jaskier mutters, seeing a number of the man’s CDs folded into the mix.

“Ciri’s,” Geralt answers from the kitchen. “She went through a phase back in middle school. I can probably recite every track in _The Troubadour_ by heart.”

“Ugh, I would appreciate it if you didn’t.”

“Not a fan?” Geralt asks, amused.

“He’s a hack,” Jaskier grumbles, thumbing through the cases. He winces once he remembers that Dandelion is a feature on a few of the guest tracks. Suddenly, snooping through Geralt’s music collection is a lot less exciting.

“Sounds personal,” Geralt observes, walking towards him with a mug on each hand. He hands Jaskier a blue mug, Kaer Morhen logo moulded on the side.

“You have no idea,” he sighs.

A perfect segue.

Jaskier takes a seat next to Geralt on the couch, body inclined to his despite averting his eye. He thumbs at the relief on the mug, finger smoothing over the ceramic wolf over and over again.

Silence hangs between them.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, “for freaking out earlier.”

The words are caught in his throat, and he takes a sip of coffee as if to somehow loosen them.

“You don’t have to explain anything,” Geralt hums, letting him collect his thoughts.

“I know,” he sighs. “Thank you, for that.”

Geralt continues to watch him, ever-so patient. Jaskier bets if he changed the topic right now, Geralt would go along with it. A pleaser. Considerate to the nines. But no. Jaskier needs to face this already, rip the bandaid off.

He’s so _tired_.

“Okay, so - explanations. Why, might you ask, did Jaskier have a mini-freak out during what was otherwise a lovely first date?”

With a sense of resignation, Jaskier places his drink on the coffee table and walks back to the shelf. He scans the selection of albums, plucks Ciri’s Valdo CD from the lineup and takes a beside Geralt, closer this time. 

The man puts his mug down, giving Jaskier his full attention.

“Jaskier?”

“Actually, Jaskier isn’t my real name,” he corrects, ignoring Geralt’s questioning look. 

That’s not how he wanted to start, but he guesses it’ll work.

“It’s Julian Alfred Pencratz. The second, because I’m named after my grandfather and my mother and father are pretentious like that.”

“Spoiled rich kid?”

“Lineage and luck,” Jaskier sighs, rubbing at his neck. His parents are well-off, but he hasn’t touched their income since he was fifteen. Hasn’t needed to. By that age, he had more money than he knew what to do with, his annual revenue eclipsing theirs by a long shot.

“Julian Alfred Penkratz the Second,” Geralt repeats. “Mouthful like that, can’t blame you for changing it.” 

He smiles, obviously trying to alleviate the mood.

“It’s true that it isn’t the most... efficient thing to have to yell at a child when they wander off from their class during a field trip,” Jaskier laughs, faint memories of his childhood popping up, “but it’s not quite like that. Jaskier… Well, Jaskier isn’t even my legal name.”

“A nickname then?”

Jaskier licks his lips, bitter coffee on his tongue as he looks into the gold of Geralt’s eyes.

“Pretty sure to be a nickname it has to be given to you by other people, so no.”

Deep breaths.

“You could call it a pseudonym, though I’d have to look up the definition. In any case, it’s a new identity. I wanted to start fresh. When I moved out here, I thought ‘ _New day, new place, new me_ ’ and gave it to myself. My grandmother was polish, you know. On my mom’s side. Poisonous yellow flowers - God, I thought I was being so clever…”

He’s babbling now, mouth moving faster than his mind as he tries to organize his thoughts. Geralt reaches over, probably to try and catch his arm as he did earlier, but Jaskier ends up shoving Marx’s CD into his hand.

“I’m sorry. For not telling you before,” Jaskier grimaces, running his hands through his hair.

He wonders if it looks as frazzled as he feels.

Geralt looks at him questioningly, not sparing the CD a second glance and placing it beside their now forgotten cups. He reaches out, this time successfully taking Jaskier’s wrists into his hands and halting his fidgeting.

“It’s just a name. Jaskier or Julian? It makes no difference to me.”

The conviction is sweet.

“What about Dandelion?” he asks, eyes flicking towards the CD in worry.

“The weed?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier blinks.

Geralt answers without skipping a beat, and Jaskier can’t help but feel taken aback. For so long, Dandelion was an idol. A reputation.

But Geralt’s first connection to Dandelion is the fucking _plant_ and you know what? He’ll take that.

The complete look of confusion on Geralt’s face in the ensuing quiet causes Jaskier to let out a peal of laughter.

His shift in mood brings a small, albeit concerned, smile to Geralt’s face.

“Not the weed,” Jaskier huffs, composing himself. “The singer, Dandelion. Popstar? Teen idol? Grammy-winning musician?”

“I don’t listen to music much,” Geralt frowns.

Jaskier can feel his worries melting away as Geralt only furrows his brow, clearly not understanding what he’s getting at.

He’s never been so happy for someone not to recognize his accomplishments. It’s lowered the stakes, has made things feel less weighty, like everything he is and was is not such a big deal. While Ghost Lake may not be as safe as he believed, Jaskier thinks he hasn’t made the wrong choice in trusting Geralt.

He takes Valdo’s CD back into his hands, turns it over to the tracklist, and leans into Geralt’s side. The man stiffens for a second, before shifting and relaxing into him. An arm sneaks around his waist, pulling Jaskier closer.

It’s nice.

Jaskier could get used to this.

“Look here,” he says quietly, before his bravery begins to waver. He points to the fine white print, punctuating it with a tap of his nail. “Track number four. _Return to Cidaris_ ft. Dandelion. You said that my grudge against Valdo sounded personal...”

He takes a moment to breathe.

In and Out.

In and Out.

His heartbeat is surprisingly steady.

“Darling,” Jaskier continues, “it was.”

He eyes Geralt, the man still looking on him with confusion as the words sink in.

“Honestly, it was the worst collaboration I’ve ever had the displeasure of doing. My manager - that’s Priscilla, I’ve mentioned her before - well, she insisted. This was rather early in my career and Valdo was more established at the time. The industry _it_ boy, until I came around. I think that’s why he was so annoyed when my tracks started topping his. God, he was such a snob. I admit that working with him was a good learning experience but having to talk him up in the press and smiling through it all? _Hated it_.”

Geralt doesn’t ray anything in response to his rambling, but there’s a certain tension in his body. Through the silence, Jaskier continues to speak. It’s like a dam has broken, like he’s freefalling.

Until this moment, Jaskier didn’t realize just how much of himself he’s had to keep locked up. Little experiences that made him who he was, places and people he couldn’t actually mention without explaining his profession, the depths of his popularity.

The tiresome feeling that came with constantly censoring himself.

“It got worse after we did the music video together,” he laughs. “Valdo kept yammering on to the press how I was a young talent that he’d taken under his wing, how he was helping me, and I quote ‘ _bloom into the flower I could be_ ’. Blegh, as if. You know, on the Wikipedia page there was actually a section talking about how Marx _mentored_ me, but it’s all bullshit.”

He grimaces.

“It’s been awhile since I looked myself up. Hopefully someone took it down.”

Jaskier drums his fingers across the hard case, twisting to get a look at Geralt. There’s a little furrow between his brows that he wants to kiss away.

“You - you have a Wikipedia page?” Geralt ends up choking out, oblivious to the thoughts running through Jaskier’s mind.

“Wanna see?” he asks, a grin creeping up on him.

Might as well enjoy this.

This whole situation is novel, and Jaskier finds more amusement in the reveal that he had anticipated.

He twists out of Geralt’s hold so he can grab the phone from his jean pocket, discarding Marx’s CD uncaringly. As soon as he wiggles his phone out from his jeans, he flops back into Geralt’s side and burrows himself into the warmth.

To his relief, Geralt’s hand makes it back to his waist once more.

With a few quick taps, Jaskier pulls up his page.

The photo featured on his article was grabbed from his interview with Billboard, released a few months prior to his diagnosis. He recognizes it from the suit and the obnoxious jewelry his stylist has selected. For all his complaints, he looks nice. Handsome. Rich. Young and healthy.

His skin was flawless and his blonde hair was shining bright under the studio lighting, no sallow skin or balding patches in sight.

He thrusts the device in Geralt’s face, not allowing his mind to wander to the _Illness and Hiatus_ subsection he sees among the headings.

Geralt plucks the phone from his fingers, taking a long look at the entry before his eyes flit back to Jaskier. 

Back to the entry.

Back to Jaskier.

Entry.

Jaskier.

Jaskier thinks that he registers the exact moment it finally clicks.

Geralt begins to scroll, the furrow in his brow getting deeper as time goes on. He’s not stopping long enough to read, seeming to skin through section after section of Julian and Dandelion’s life, everything invasively condensed and cobbled together for public perusal.

Jaskier leans his head against Geralt’s shoulder, observing Roach now napping in her dog bed. He concentrates on breathing in the comforting smell of Geralt’s cologne, warm and woodsy.

“This is… extensive,” Geralt observes, body tense underneath him.

Jaskier’s phone is still clutched in Geralt’s hand, face down against his thigh.

“What can I say? I’m kind of a big deal. Was. Still am, if those girls managed to recognize me.” He shrugs. “I’m on a break. You probably skimmed the reason in there. I ended up panicking when I realized they were staring at me because of… well, _me_.”

Jaskier smiles but he’s sure it’s more rueful than anything.

“I’m still having trouble being seen.”

A twofold meaning, if he was being honest.

“I had no idea.”

The arm around him suddenly feels too loose, and Jaskier stops Geralt from pulling away. Instead, he guides his hand to hold him tighter and shifts into a more comfortable position to cuddle.

Geralt’s not exactly boneless, but that stiffness that runs through his posture eases and he seems to press closer to Jaskier.

“I know,” he mumbles, turning his head and trying to hide away in Geralt’s neck. His lips brush against bare skin, and he feels Geralt shiver. “I liked that.”

In and Out.

Deep breaths.

“Does Ciri know?”

“No, I haven’t told anyone. Just you.”

He feels a little guilty about that, but it was for his own sanity. It does feel good to have finally told Geralt though. The world hasn’t ended. Fire doesn’t rain from the skies. The ground doesn’t split in two. 

Paparazzi do not bang at the door.

(At least, for now.)

Everything is just as it was, and he appreciates that.

For now, it’s just him and Geralt, snuggling on a couch in his homey home in the middle of the woods, Roach snoring from her corner of the room. Even if it’s just for now, he’ll take the ephemeral kindness.

The minutes tick by and Geralt doesn’t say a word, thumb tracing circles on his side.

Now it’s Jaskier’s turn to wait. He doesn’t mind the quiet so much anymore, weight on his chest lifted.

“What does this mean?” Geralt asks.

“For what?”

“Us,” Geralt replies, startlingly direct.

“Well,” Jaskier shifts so he can look up at him, “it means being a little more careful when we go on dates. I wear sunglasses quite a bit and it’s admittedly more of a precaution in hiding my identity rather than an attempt to prevent cataracts -”

He feels Geralt laugh silently, chest contracting in and out, and Jaskier likes that very much.

“- and I guess I would ask you to keep me out of any Instagram or Twitter posts, unless you have it locked for friends and family -“

“You know I don’t have those.”

“Friends and family? Lies, Geralt. I’ve met most of them.”

(Problems for a later date.)

“No, Instagram or Twitter,” he grumbles, and Jaskier catches what were the beginnings of an eyeroll.

“I know, I know. Sometimes I’m surprised I get to text you as much as I do.”

“It’s… not something I do often. But I like doing it. With you.”

“Careful Geralt, you’re giving a man ideas,” he can’t help but joke.

A bemused _hm_ is his reply, but Jaskier tries to concentrate on the current conversation instead of losing himself in the heat of Geralt’s body, the feeling of hard muscle only separated by a thin layer of fabric.

“You said earlier,” Geralt interrupts, “that you’d get the next tab. And just now - that we had to be more careful when we go on dates. Do you still want that though?”

Jaskier pulls further away, this time just so he can get a better look at Geralt’s expression. He wants Geralt to know that he’s serious about this, that he’s serious about them.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well,” Geralt fidgets, and Jaskier thinks this is the first time he’s seen the man truly uncomfortable, “is the singer, popstar, teen idol Dandelion, really happy about this? Serious about this?”

 _With me_ , is the question left unsaid.

Jaskier hates the doubt, the worry that’s been seeded in Geralt, but they’re fresh and this is completely uncharted territory between the two of them.

“I trust you, Geralt,” he starts, gaze unflinching. “With you, I’m just Jaskier. Listen, I know you think I’m young, but being Dandelion has been like a lifetime of experience.”

Deep breaths.

“I know what I want. And if you want me as Jaskier? Well, I can think of nothing more pleasing to me than being in your arms.”

A small smile pulls at the corner of Geralt’s mouth and the hand at Jaskier’s waist continues moving in soothing strokes. His fingers tease the sliver of bare skin where Jaskier’s shirt has ridden up in his shifting. Geralt’s touch is scalding now in a different way.

Jaskier likes Geralt like this a lot.

Close and soft and attentive.

He can’t help but want to be closer.

Geralt seems to feel the same because his eyes flick towards Jaskier’s lips.

Honest to God, Jaskier feels himself shiver, cognizant of the fact that he’s essentially draped against Geralt at this point. His heart is beating hard this time, but it’s not because of worry.

Jaskier leans in so close their noses brush, but it's Geralt that bridges the gap, dips his head down so that their lips press together, soft and sweet.

Chaste. A tease. Jaskier is greedy and he wants more.

Jaskier takes the opportunity to pull Geralt down, fingers playing with locks of white hair and pressing against the back of his neck. Unable to restrain himself, Jaskier swipes his tongue against Geralt’s lips.

It startles a rough moan from the other man, and Jaskier just wants to bury himself deeper, coax out more of that delicious sound. Geralt takes his coffee with cream and sugar, and Jaskier wants to indulge in the taste.

When Geralt pulls away for air, Jaskier has never felt so distant.

“I want to take it slow,” Geralt surprises him by saying.

Jaskier would be miffed, but there’s an unmistakable heat in his eyes, so he knows that he’s not being rejected.

Of the various ways he could imagine this night ending, Jaskier is surprised by this one though. He doesn’t think he’s ever had a partner say such a thing. Of course, he’s never had a partner like Geralt before.

Geralt runs his thumb across Jaskier’s cheek like he’s something precious, and Jaskier tries not to melt at the gesture.

His mind must not be working quite right because he ends up blurting what’s on his mind, rather than making a joke of cooling off.

“Can I stay here tonight?” Jaskier asks, feeling his face warm as soon as he asks the question. “Not like that though. Uhm, If you want to take it slow, that’s fine. I just - I just want to stay close to you for now. I don’t want to go home.”

Geralt presses a kiss to his forehead in reply, and Jaskier has never felt himself _ache_ from such a tender gesture.

“‘Course,” Geralt answers, ever the pleaser.

Jaskier bites his lip, and says thank you with another quick kiss because he just can’t help himself.

When he pulls back, Geralt looks at him with such adoration he's oblivious to the rapid tempo of his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late night update? In the middle of the week? Wild! Anyways, thank you to everyone that left some love last chapter, and thank you to all the new readers as well. You guys don't know how motivating comments, kudos and every other little reminder that people are actually reading this story can be. As always, love any and all feedback. Hope you guys are doing alright, and please remember to be kind to yourselves!


End file.
